No longer needed
by Yut Taha Aki
Summary: 2 months after failing to save his brother Dean from his crossroad demon deal Sam Winchester finds himself standing on the doorstep of someone who appears to have held a place in Dean's life that Sam has no knowledge of. Will she be able to help him get over his Grief or will it all just topple over their heads? What will happen when another hunter meets the witch that saved many?
1. Prologue

Sam's packing when Dean walks through the motel door with dinner. Dean throws him a wide grin and kicks the door with the heel of his boot. It bangs loudly closed and causes the glass in the small side window to rattle.

Sam's lips thin in an expression that stopped being annoying around the time Sam was eleven and Dean realised how much fun it was to wind his baby brother up.

He watches Sam yank on the zip of his duffle a little too hard. It snaps and Sam lets out a long suffering sigh.

"Easy there, Sammy," Dean says, biting back a laugh and dropping down onto his bed. He tosses a pizza box across onto Sam's bed - already made, complete with hospital corners.

Sam huffs, sweeps it up quickly and moves it onto the bedside table, murmuring something about 'grease' and 'fucking slob.'

Dean smirks. There's a comfort in Sam's predictability; in the moments that are a direct echo of how things have always been between them. This last year, maybe even before his deal, there's been a shift. And Sam – Dean's honestly not sure when or how, but Sam's changed. It's more than just growing up and it feels weird to not have to fight for this life with his brother.

Dean leans back, stops himself from thinking about Sam and how Sam's going to be, and settles against his pillows. He opens his own pizza box, lifts out a slice to take a bite. It's fucking delicious and he groans, long and loud, smacking his lips a couple of times before glancing back at Sam.

Sam shoves his hair out of his eyes, glares at Dean.

"There's sauce on your chin, Dean," Sam says, eyebrow arched and disparaging.

Dean wipes at the smudge clinging to the bristles on his chin, then licks and sucks it off.

Sam snorts.

"Getting you hot, Sammy," Dean jokes. He waggles his eyebrows and licks his thumb again, slower and more salacious.

"Fuck you," Sam retorts and tosses a wad of Dean's dirt stained clothes across the room at him.

Dean ducks to the side and the clothes sail past, catching on the other side of his queen and sliding to the floor.

Sam smiles - small and tired, and takes a seat on the edge of his bed.

Dean casts him a sideways glance and takes in the bags under his eyes; wondering if he slept at all last night after they got back from salting and burning Gwen Palmer's bones. When Dean had got up at about four for a piss, Sam had still been bent over his laptop, so he thinks it's unlikely.

Sam opens his pizza and pushes at it with a finger. Dean can hear it grate against the corrugated cardboard as Sam slides it around.

"Where the hell did you find pizza this early?"

Dean shrugs. "Next to the seven eleven."

Sam pokes his finger into the box. "It's not Hawaiian."

"They were out of pineapple."

"Huh." Sam pushes the pizza again, finally seems to judge it not entirely unappetizing, and takes a cautious bite.

Dean breathes out and makes a mental note to make sure Bobby gets the kid to eat properly after –

Dean coughs and takes another bite of his own slice.

"So, I was thinking," Dean says, his mouth full, words mumbled around the pizza inside, "of taking a few days off. What do you think?"

Sam stares at Dean, opens his mouth, closes it and stares some more. "Why?" he asks, dropping the pizza back into the box.

Dean studies the unevenness of the toppings on his meat feast. "Thought we could do with a little R and R."

Sam gapes. Dean can see it out the corner of his eye. He kind of looks like a fish.

"Dean," Sam says, voice carefully soft, "you haven't wanted to stop all year. Not even in Cicero."

"I just - I've got an old friend up in Maine, figured since we were only a state over we could drop by. Pay her a visit."

"Her?" Sam asks, full of suspicion. "We?"

Dean grins, the special leer he used to save to piss Sam off whenever he brought home a girl back during their high school days. "She's kind of a wildcat." He drops his head back, folding one arm beneath it and closing his eyes. He thinks about fucking Hermione in the back of the Impala; the way she'd push him down against the seat and ride him. He thinks about catching up with her in Portland last year when he and Sammy had taken some down time, and knows he's put off telling her for too long.

Sam grunts and Dean smiles, shaking the thought. When he looks over Sam's closed the pizza box and put it back on the table. "I think I'll take a rain check, thanks. Playing third wheel while you get your rocks off got kind of old a long time ago, Dean. Kind of got more important things to think about."

Sam's voice is pissy as all hell, his face pinched, and Dean sits up. Looks at his brother. Sometimes he wishes Sam would just let this go. It's harder when he won't. Sam seems able to make Dean's deal permeate every conversation they have until it feels like it's a heavy hand on his shoulder wherever they go. It makes it hard to enjoy what's left. It makes Dean worry more about after.

"Come on. I think you'd get along," Dean says. It's true, he's joked about the fact with Hermione more than once, the idea that as soon as she met Sam she'd want to swap him for his geeky, book loving little brother; run off to a library with him.

Sam shakes his head, coughs into his hand and makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like, 'not likely.'

Dean frowns. "You thought Cassie was okay."

Sam shrugs.

It's not that he'd really been thinking too seriously when he'd made the suggestion, but now, with Sam so against the idea of visiting, Dean feels his hackles rise at the dismissal. He wants his brother to meet Hermione. It's something else he's put off too long and it feels even more important now because this is the one part of Dean's life Sam's never been a part of, and Hermione? She's a constant Dean never imagined. She's someone other than Bobby that Sam could go to after. Someone who'd probably understand where Sam was coming from; who wouldn't let Sam drink himself into following.

Plus there's the fact that they really would get along.

"You think I only date bimbos and skanks, Sam?"

"I think you don't date," Sam answers, looking up at Dean with a smirk as he opens his laptop back up.

And Dean doesn't. Not really. There was Cassie, some girls back in high school when they actually stayed in a town for a whole semester, but it's not like their lifestyle really offers much opportunity for anything more. And Dean's okay with that. Different girl in every town was always just fine with him because he had Sam and Dad and hunting. In that order.

Except then Sam left and Dad was busy chasing their mom's ghost.

He thinks Cassie was the prelude. Cassie made him want this. And then he'd met Hermione and Hermione was a little different. Different enough to fit in the way Cassie never would have.

But Sam wouldn't know and Dean can't even say please when his brother's ragging on him about not taking stupid chances, let alone about something like this.

The word forms a dry lump in his throat, it grates as he swallows and wipes away the perfect pizza taste he'd been enjoying.

"It's fine Dean," Sam says, eyes back on the computer screen, fingers already tapping. "Go get laid. Whatever! Enjoy yourself."

He doesn't look up and Dean grinds his teeth.

Sam taps a few more words, clicks and then looks up, adding, "Do you need the car or should I get a rental?"

Dean wants to break something, but the credit cards are running low and he can think of better ways to spend what's left on them than a motel repair bill for a crappy lamp.

He gets up, grabs his jacket and is at the door before Sam's tapping even pauses again.

"I'm going out," Dean says, thinks about the sudden appeal of a bottle of Cuervo over pizza.

"We need to be out by eleven. And I'm not packing up your shit."

Dean scowls. "Fine, but you're driving."

Sam murmurs an acknowledgement and Dean slams the door, thinks that this is anything but the plan he'd had when he'd woken up that morning.


	2. Chapter 1

The woman stands in the doorway of the log cabin. Sam's hand is still raised, poised and ready to knock on the dark red door, and she's just looking up at him. Her eyebrow is arched and one hand's on her hip; expectation clear.

Four months back and there was nothing but relief and desperation looking up at this house; the need for the time alone to find a solution and look into the list of bookmarks on his laptop; organised by priority of possibility. There had been no true curiosity as to Dean's motivations past the obvious. He'd been all too happy to just accept Dean's 'Two months, Sam. What the fuck do you think I want?'

Sam looks at the woman in the doorway and he feels too much and nothing all at once.

He remembers watching Dean walk up to this house four months earlier. The image of his brother fading to lines and shapes in his memory; just a familiar silhouette with a backpack slung over one shoulder; sticking his thumbs up before turning his back on Sam and walking away. It feels fundamentally wrong that the details that made up Dean aren't clearer. He remembers them, but in parts. Trying to recall how they all fit together to make Dean's face ends in something abstract and frustrating. They'd spent the majority of their lives living in each other's pockets and already he has to pull out a photo.

"Sam," she says after a minute, no question in her tone.

She's looking at him the same way Missouri did, like she sees straight through him. Like she sees all. Sam's half tempted to ask if she's a psychic, but he's really pretty sure Dean found the whole seeing into his head thing far too creepy to ever consider fucking one. No matter how hot, and this girl's pretty, but she's no Playboy bunny. If anything Sam would say she was more his type than Dean's, but then he remembers Cassie.

He opens his mouth to reply, finds the introduction he'd practiced out loud ten times or more during the ride from Pontiac, Illinois to Smithfield, Maine and lets it fade. "How'd you know..."

The woman, Hermione, sighs, straightens then reaches back, twists her hair up on her head, fixing it with a pencil, and Sam suddenly realises she hasn't once looked past him. Not down the path or at the car parked at the edge of the drive. Anger stings hot, stretching out in his chest and settling into a tight feeling when he breathes in. He clenches his fingers once, twice and looks her straight in the eye, not sure if it's her he's frustrated with, or Dean. Because getting Dean to tell him anything voluntarily was like getting praise from their Dad. Given this woman's lack of hope upon his appearance, apparently different rules apply and Dean's unwillingness to talk about shit ends when it's a casual fuck buddy he's talking to.

"I guess you'd better come in," she says.

He wonders what Dean told her. Cancer maybe. Some other disease? The Truth? He can't get past why the fuck Dean felt so comfortable telling a freaking stranger. It's only after she's turned her back on him and stepped back into the cabin, leaving the door wide open, that he catches up with the conversation and the fact that the woman's disappeared inside the house.

"- not exactly warm up here this time of year. There's a draft excluder on your left. If you wouldn't mind putting it back, please."

Her voice is followed by the bubbling hiss of a kettle starting to boil from somewhere further inside. Sam rolls his shoulders, steps forward.

The cabin's warm; a fire's grumbling away happily in the grate across the room. Sam leans back against the door, watching the embers flare and curl their way up into the chimney.

He remembers staying somewhere like this when he was sixteen or so; more run down though. It had felt like every day something new had needed fixing. Sam remembers most of the places they stayed being like that. He can recall Dean stretching cling film over the window in the bathroom. His brother explaining gruffly that it was to stop the fucking draft when they showered; making fun of Sam's delicate immune system and calling him a precious baby while ruffling his hair.

And Thursdays! Sam's lips tilt up, just a fraction. Thursdays there had been coming home after math club to Dean stoking the fire, take-out on the coffee table, and later pushing a copy of the Matrix (or whatever film he'd gotten hold of), into the second hand video player.

"You take sugar, right?"

"Yeah," Sam replies even though the voice sounded too sure, the question too politely rhetorical. His lips thin.

He pushes off from the door, stretches out the kinks that have knotted into his shoulder during the drive up. The Impala's heating had sputtered out fifty miles before he crossed the border into Massachusetts, and he hadn't realised until now just how deep the cold had got. The thaw from the fire is still too shallow, and Sam can feel the chill too deep in his bones, he thinks no matter how long he warms himself in the room it will remain too superficial.

He can hear clinking from the direction he presumes leads to the kitchen. The sound of a cat purring and the women murmuring, 'Okay, okay, just give me a minute, Crooks.

He looks around the room and this whole thing feels wrong. There was a bar two miles back down the road and Sam's head has felt too clear for the last four hours of the drive up.

When he'd found the picture, well, the morning after, and in the light of the hangover from hell and the realisation of what it might mean, Sam had just thought – someone to tell. Someone who won't just say, I'm sorry about your brother. He was a good hunter. Your dad would have been proud. He's not sure Hermione's what he was hoping for.

Three books lie open on the desk that stands behind the sofa. Sam pokes the corner of one, turning it until it lies straight and easy to read, some form of Latin he's unfamiliar with. He can pick out some names though, enough to understand it's got something to do with the position of the stars and planets. There was a time when snooping through someone's things like this made Sam blanch, his skin hot and prickly with the fear he might get caught and the fact that it was wrong. He can't remember when it became a routine habit and not an invasion of someone else's privacy.

He shifts the top book again, looks at the other two underneath, one's an astrology text and the other is in the same language as the first. He looks at the lines of text and feels frustrated that he doesn't recognise its origin.

After their Dad had died, when Dean had been let out the hospital and they'd been staying at Bobby's, Sam had spent weeks going through Bobby's bookcase, Dean outside focused on fixing the Impala and barely talking. He'd hardly made a dent; doesn't remember anything that looked like this.

He moves to turn around. Bookcases line the wall to the right of the door and it's like a reflex to want to look. He doesn't get that far.

Hermione's leant against a door frame watching him as she takes a sip from her mug. "Finished snooping yet?" she asks, and takes another drink.

There's a ginger cat rubbing up against her legs, patches of fur missing from his coat and a scratch across his nose.

She's too calm, too accepting, and Sam narrows his eyes. "How'd you meet my brother?" he returns, voice hard. He has the urge to add, 'What are you?' If this involved almost anyone but Dean, he would, because everything since the moment he got here - walked through the gate - has felt off.

The cat stops, pushes its head through Hermione's legs, his ears flat. Sam doesn't even question the fact that it's staring right at him.

When Sam was twelve they stayed in a rental in Wyoming for six months while their Dad hunted a pack of werewolves. The old lady next door who sometimes made them food had eleven cats, one of whom was ninety percent feral. Sam doesn't remember any of them, even Fitz, looking at him as intensely as Hermione's is right now. He's not sure what's more off putting; the cat or the fact that Hermione's looking at him, head tilted and unfazed.

He adds it to the list of wrong, wonders if in a moment her eyes will turn cruel and black.

Hermione walks up to him, holds out a second mug, nudging it against his chest. "When did you last have a drink? You know he'd kill you himself if you drove his car-" Hermione wrinkles her nose.

She has freckles like Dean's and the familiarity in her qualifier makes Sam want to snap like he's sixteen and arguing with his Dad over having to move schools again.

He doesn't. He swallows the retort down with a practiced ease he learnt while he was applying to colleges and trying to avoid both his Dad's and Dean's attention. Still, his hands clench into fists and he sucks his cheek between his back teeth, bites down.

He isn't sure what riles him up about this woman so easily, but it's like every conversation he had with his dad. Like being babied by Melisa Talbot, the girl Dean dated for three months back when Sam was eleven, and who was always around the house whenever their dad took off.

"I wouldn't," he replies. It's mostly true as far as the tense goes.

Hermione nods primly, lifts her chin. Sam thinks she's about to say 'good,' but she doesn't. Instead, she nudges the mug towards him again. 'It'll help warm you up. I hope there's enough sugar. I presumed Dean was exaggerating when his said you liked enough so that the spoon stands up." She arcs an eyebrow and smiles up at him, an attempt at some kind of some kind of truce.

Sam's fairly sure it doesn't work. Not the way she intended. His skin feels too tight around his bones, there's a lump in his throat that feels too much like it's practically throbbing and he wants to ask, 'What? What did he say about me?'

"Dean's-" His voices breaks and Sam can't look at her. He stares at the flames flickering in the grate instead.

A hand settles on his arm, squeezing it.

"I know, Sam. I know. You don't - Sit down. Drink the coffee and get warm. We can talk later. All you want. Okay, Sam? "

He wants to shake his head, say 'no, it's not,' that it never will be. Instead, he nods, takes the drink, says, 'Yeah,' without feeling and takes the seat she gestures at. He feels tired, would rather just crash out and not talk about any of this ever again.

Hermione takes the cup from Sam's hand and places it on the coffee table. His eyes are closed and it's hard not to just stare, look for the similarities like the indent of his chin. It's all too easy to find them when she actually looks. The lines on his forehead and the shadow of too long stubble make it easier to see Dean in him, the weight they both shared.

Hermione kneels on the floor, smoothes her hands across the denim covering her thighs. There's a lump in her throat and she wishes it would move; that she could swallow past it.

He looks so much older than when she'd last met him. She isn't surprised he doesn't remember. It's not like they were even introduced at the time; the whole premise of her meeting him at all to see if she could pick up anything magical about Sam that would explain his dreams to Dean.

"Couldn't have introduced us like normal people, could you Dean?" Hermione huffs, looks down and wonders if that would really make any difference; if maybe it would have been worse because Sam might not have had the curiosity to come look.

She pushes up on her knees, leans in to cup the back of Sam's head and take his shoulder. When she starts to turn him to lie him down, Sam's eyes open; sleepy, slanted slits like a cat that's been disturbed.

"Shh, Sam," Hermione coos, pushing him around and down.

His pupils are blown and unfocussed. He blinks and they narrow even more.

"Dean," Sam says, drawing the syllable out, stressing the long 'e' sound.

Hermione's hand falters and she bites her lip. The lump in her throat slides down sharp and quick to lodge in her chest and feels so much worse. She wonders if Ron still calls for them sometimes.

"Hush," she says, aware of the innateness of the gesture, knowing first hand how little it will ever help, but just wanting him to be quiet.

She turns, fetches the comforter from her bed, and wishes she'd had the foresight to mix up a fresher batch of Dreamless Sleep two months back, but knows the temptation would have been too much.

When she walks back into the room Sam's shifting, turning on his side and she knows the draft she gave him had lost far too much potency to be effective enough.

"Dean," he says again and Hermione's glad for the comforter Luna had pushed into her hands that first week after the battle at Hogwarts.

"Dad made it me, after my mum. It'll help you sleep. I don't need it anymore."

She thinks she's come far enough to get through at least a few nights sleep on her own; hopes she has.

Hermione drapes it over Sam, tucks him in and strokes a hand across his hair the way she had wished for once. She watches as the flicker of his eyelids slow, evening out as his breathing becomes deeper.

The room's dark when Sam wakes up, a low lit lamp on the desk the only companion to the light from the fire.

There's a blanket covering him, and for a minute it's easy to just turn over, burrow deeper into the cushions, pretend Dean's only twenty feet away in Bobby's spare room.

The fabric against his cheek's too soft though, the cushions too plump, and there's a mild smell of aniseed in the air. Sam can taste it when he sucks in a breath on a long yawn. Sam's no stranger to waking up in rooms that smell of herbs. But this isn't one he associates with Bobby's house. Bobby's house smelt of ash, car oil, bergamot and borage, and Dean's a whole lot more than twenty feet away.

He closes his eyes, tips his head back listens to the dull repetitive tick-tock of a clock somewhere before pushing himself up on his elbows.

The available light casts warm glow over everything it touches; reflecting off the wooden furniture and making everything feel homelier. Sam thinks he should appreciate it more than he does. Can't.

He does a quick sweep of the room looking for anything out of place; looking for some sign of its owner. The dim lighting accentuates the dark corners, causing shadows to spread out and stretch their fingers up the walls in a way that scared a four-year-old Sam far more than the dark. It's been a long time since he was frightened of simple shadows, but he still finds himself paying more attention to them than he perhaps would if he'd been brought up normally. He wonders if the same is true for some of the kids they've saved.

"How'd you sleep?" Hermione asks.

Sam hadn't realised she was there. His eyes settle on the vague silhouette of someone curled up in the armchair beside the desk; just a fuzzy outline of curly hair and the corner of a book where it hangs over the edge of an arm rest.

It's almost reflex to say, like crap. It's what he's said the few times Bobby's called and he's actually answered. Sam's not sure he's slept more than an hour since the whole thing with Lilith in New Harmony.

Or at least he hadn't.

He stretches one arm up and over his head, moves his other to scratch his belly through a yawn. "Good," he say's not really thinking about how unexpected that answer is. What he really wants to do is lie back down, turn over and maybe sleep like that for another twenty-four hours at least.

He doesn't remember dreaming.

And that right there is far more surprising than the fact he feels like he actually got some rest. Because he wasn't drunk.

The only times since Dean died that Sam remembers not waking up to a memory of his brother dying a hundred different ways, or to bloodshot green eyes staring out at him from pitch black, Dean's voice panicked and horse, hollering, 'Sam! Sammy! Sam! are the times he's drunk too much to do more than pass out in the back of the Impala or wherever he's happened to fall.

He narrows his eyes, tries to adjust to the light and focus on Hermione, see her expression. "Did you drug me?" he asks. Sam's more pissed at himself for letting some slip of a girl drug him so easily than he is at her audacity and presumption. Dean would kick his ass for it; Bobby too, and he doesn't even bother thinking about what his dad would say.

"You looked like it had been a while since you last had a good rest."

There's no apology in her voice, it's prim and un-reproachful; bluntly honest in a way that makes Sam wonder how the hell Dean ever hooked up with this girl. He really can't imagine any of Dean's pickup lines going down very well. Scathing might very well have been an apt description for her response, and Sam can't really see how that type of response or Dean's first impression could have led to any kind of relationship where his brother felt he could just drop by for sex.

He narrows his eyes, studies the little he can see of her.

There were girls, back whenever Sam and Dean started a new school, who used to eye Dean - leather jacket still a little too big on his shoulders - like he was the juiciest cut of steak. Stuck up little snobs who liked Dean well enough to make out with him, who let him get them off in the back of his car, but who wouldn't ever take him home to meet mommy and daddy. Sam had always hated them a little for never being able to see Dean as more than that bit of rough.

He wonder's if Hermione's the same as those girls, if there's really anything else to gain by being here; if there's anything to learn. She's not surprised, she doesn't seem upset. Sam's really not sure what point there is in staying any longer.

He just wants – some kind of reaction.

Sam stands up. "I should get going," he says, looking anywhere but at Hermione. His hands clench by his side and he grinds his teeth. "I just thought you should know," he grates out. "That's all. But, you know, clearly I needn't have bothered."

He turns away. Sam feels ten kinds of tired all over again and that drink he thought about earlier? Right now, it's ten times as appealing.

"Sam," Hermione says softly. Calm as ever, and he snaps.

He spins, stalks the short distance across the room to her. "I don't need pity," he says.

She tips her head to one side and looks up at him, "Well that's good -" Hermione snorts derisively, all hint of softness in her voice gone and her lips thin. "- because it's certainly not what I was offering. Or what you deserve."

Her voice is cold – judgemental.

Sam stops short, and he pulls back from where he'd braced himself on the arms of her chair. He stands up straight. "What do you mean?"

Hermione pushes herself up out of the chair and slides past Sam, placing her book on the desk as she passes. "Now's really not the right time to get into this."

Sam swears under his breath. "People've been telling me that all my life," he says. "Thing is, I'm just a little fed up of waiting for right times that never seem to come."

Hermione sighs, long and low, and shakes her head.

Sam scoffs, turns on his heel. He has his hand on the door handle, fingers clutched and ready to just get the hell out, but then she says, "When we met Dean was on a hunt. I think he thought I was who or what he was looking for."

Sam lets go, looks back over at the woman. Her face is softer than the open accusation of earlier. Sam dislikes it more than her anger, but then he realises she's not looking at him and he looks away.

"You know, my whole life Dean and dad drilled into me how I was supposed to keep the family secret -"

"He was hunting me, Sam. You really think his job's not going to come up in conversation at some point? It's not like he was conspiring against you."

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Hermione holds him off.

"I think you were at Stanford. I guess. You – he didn't talk about you until later."

Sam wants to ask. Wants to question her on every thing Dean said about him. The smallest details. Needs to just know. "What-"

"Sam," Hermione says.

He takes a deep breath; halts the words.

"There's hot water if you want a shower. I've made a pot of stew as well. There's plenty if you'd like a bowl after."

"I don't under... Why are you doing this?" Sam asks.

"What?"

"Letting me sleep. This! Fuck! Just everything."

Hermione closes her eyes, it's a drawn out blink and when she opens them her whole attention's focussed on Sam - uncompromising. The weight of it almost makes him step back.

"Because Dean would –" she starts to say. "Because you're wasting the sacrifice he made for you. Call me a hypocrite, but I'm not willing to watch you do that to him. He deserves more respect than that."

Sam looks at her. For the first time he sees more than just another in a long line of women.

His shoulders sag and he lets his head fall forward, too long bangs hanging heavy in his eyes.

Sam's whole body feels too heavy, but Hermione touches his shoulder, squeezes, and it's like lying down.

"Go shower. You could really do with it," she smiles. The curve of her lips upward seems alien to Sam. "The bathroom's down the corridor, through the door on the left. I'd appreciate it if you resisted snooping in my bedroom. I'll have the stew ready in about forty-five minutes."

Sam nods even though there was no question to answer. It feels like there should be, like there maybe is.

"Sam," Hermione calls out.

He's half way across the room, back to her. He looks over his shoulder; her head's cocked and brown curls falling heavy to one side. She looks like she should take up more space than she does, he thinks.

"It's okay, you know. You have to – It's okay."

Sam pulls his shirt off, looks at the shower that hangs above the bath. It's nothing fancy and Sam would bet, from the large, half-full bottle of bubble bath on the side, that it doesn't see much use.

He considers it for all of a minute before just leaning his back against the door instead, letting himself slide down it to the floor.

His head hurts; a pounding roar that had started off as just a dull throb when he'd woken up - the kind you get when you've slept too long or too deep. Now it just fucking hurts and his legs feel like jello to boot.

He wants to sleep for a week.

A month.

There's a definite allure in the idea of just not waking up and having to face – everything that's left.

He knocks his head back against the door, closes his eyes and sees Hermione's look of scorn; hears her words in Dean's voice.

Sam swallows.

He wants – he wants what he's wanted for the last year. What he's wanted since he was nine and the night Dean had walked back to the car, their dad leaning heavy on his shoulders while Sam looked out from the front seat of the Impala, his eyes on the blood soaked into the stomach of Dean's tee.

He wants and the headache doesn't detract from the fact he can think too clearly.

Sam shifts his concentration, thinking about the bottle of Cuervo lying in his duffle in the car, all too tempting.

He can't remember how much is left.

Can't remember if there's anything remaining in it that would make it worth the trip past Hermione to get it.

He bangs his head back against the door and for a moment enjoys the displacement of pain from his temples.

The door knocks back and Sam sits up straighter. He turns around, pushes himself up. When he looks around the corner of the door, Hermione's halfway down the corridor.

She turns, not quite meeting his eye.

"I thought you might need some towels," she says, coughs.

Sam looks down at his feet where there's a pile of grey-blue towels neatly folded in size order.

"Thanks," he replies.

Hermione starts to turn away, but Sam quickly adds, "I don't have clean clothes. They're in the car."

She looks back at him, eyes dropping down and then up to his face, they narrow slightly and her head tilts.

"If you leave the ones you were wearing outside the door, I'll get them washed and dried."

Sam wants to ask if she really is fucking psychic.

He doesn't. Hermione's already turned away again and is walking through the doorway into the main room.

He turns back to the bath and the shower, looks at where it hangs on the wall. It's one of those fixed ones, no handy pole to let you adjust the height.

He sighs.

Hermione's five foot nothing and Sam's body's aching enough as it is.

He undoes the buckle on his jeans, pops the top button and toes off his shoes. 'Bath it is,' Sam thinks, leans down and drops the plug into the bath.

Sam's clothes are on the hall floor in a pile when she comes out her bedroom.

The pile's neat and unexpected; it contradicts the whiff of alcohol she'd gotten when she'd been close to Sam earlier, the same whiff she gets when she picks them up now.

Hermione takes them into her bedroom, shuts the door behind her and pulls her wand out of her pocket; charming them clean. It's the quicker option, if the one that could prove infinitely more questionable. She has a feeling Sam won't think to ask though. Not right now at any rate. She picks up his jeans and imagines what Dean might have said regarding Sam's lack of observation.

Hermione frowns.

She tries not to think too much about Dean; feels guilty that she pushes him out of her mind like this, but it feels necessary. Hermione thinks of the charmed comforter she'd leant Sam and forces herself to admit it's not the only thing she's come to rely on too much.

Sam's not like she'd expected.

He's not the man Dean talked about and he's not the one she met before; two years back.

She recognises too much of herself in Sam and she doesn't think it's the same things Dean saw; that he highlighted.

It's why she asked him in. It's one of the reasons why she wishes he'd stay a while. That and some obligation she still feels towards Dean.

Dean had never said much about his family. The only time she'd met Sam had been under circumstances that did not really facilitate the option of an introduction. It really had not been a traditional, 'Hey, I want you to meet my brother' situation. Hermione hadn't really expected that from Dean. Ever.

She liked that about him; liked that that she knew she'd never be part of Dean's tight-knit, if a little dysfunctional, family. It's one of the reasons she let him get so close.

That and the fact he piqued her curiosity.

She thinks maybe if she hadn't spent so much time becoming something like friends with Blaise that the first time she'd met Dean she would have missed that he was more than he appeared.

Reading Dean was like talking to Blaise, though she thought there was less of an underlying stratagem involved in Dean's reticence. Blaise's friendship had been as much of a surprise as her relationship with Dean.

Sometimes though, Dean could be easy to read.

Where Blaise was more carefully closed off when he talked about the few people he cared about, Dean was more lax.

Dean had spoken about Sam in shadows and with his back to Hermione; in half formed sentences spoken with a gruff voice and averted eyes. He should have been hard to read, but when he talked of Sam he was like an open book. Sam's with me. His... his girlfriend - died. Sam's having these - dreams. I need you to meet him. I think – I think maybe there's something wrong with him. I don't – fuck I don't know what's going to happen after.

Hermione had been so angry at Dean for his deal. She still doesn't know if it's that he valued his life so little to make the deal, that he valued Sam's enough to and that he'd done what Hermione couldn't, or just that he'd left her behind.

Hermione folds Sam's clothes, feels a sharp prickle race up her nose. When she blinks she feels the moisture in her eyes bubble and spill down her cheeks like she hasn't let it since the morning after Dean left.

She laughs - an involuntary hiccup that bursts and cracks through the silence of her room; over the low hiss of water running across the hall.

Hermione sits down on the edge of bed, swallows, wipes roughly at her eyes and forces herself to breathe slow and steady.

She's past this.

She has to be past this.

She looks at the shirt in her hands. There's a smear of wetness across the shoulder where she'd been holding it when she'd lifted her hands to her eyes. She huffs and shakes her head, casts a second cleaning charm over it and places it on the pile.

Thinking of Dean hurts. It brings back too many other hurts and thoughts. Like Harry; the way he appears randomly in her life now, more in letters than actual visits, the way that when she does see him it's accompanied by the feeling that it's not as it should be. That they're not as they should be. They talk and catch up and he's still her best friend, but it's always wrong and they both know it is. They both know why.

Dean filled a gap she didn't know was there.

Dean made her feel something she hadn't missed once, not since she was ten and she was just an ordinary girl, nothing special except for the fact she was moderately bright. At least until – until everything fell apart and turned out worse and better than she'd ever expected all at once.

Funny how someone like Dean, who hunted ghosts and broke curses and had grown up in an even more unconventional fashion than herself could make her feel some modicum of normality.

Hermione hadn't realised how close she'd got until Dean pulled her into him on her bed, both of them sweaty and blissed out from sex. He'd tried to tuck her head under his chin, but she'd pulled back, made him tell her face to face, wished after that she hadn't because it meant that Dean's eyes had burnt into hers. He can close her eyes and see them glinting in the dark of her bedroom, can see the shadowed line of his nose, and hear the tone of his voice;, horse - roughened with sex and something else. He'd brushed her hair behind her ear, cupped her cheek and told her of his deal, said, "I don't think he's going to let me go. I wish he could come to you. I wish you'd met. Properly. I should have -"

Hermione picks the pile of clothes up, moves over to the door and turns the knob. She hopes Sam will stay.

It feels the least she can do.

She's not sure it's entirely for Dean just like she's not sure that this isn't exactly what Dean had hoped for.


	3. Chapter 2

Sam stares at the ceiling and watches as a spider makes his way almost to the centre before turning back and zig zagging its way into a corner.

The wind's a loud roar outside, it rattles the glass of the cabin's windows trying to find a way in to chill the warm air it's denied.

Sam's slept through worse.

Could sleep through a hurricane, according to Dean. Almost did the one summer when they were staying down in North Carolina. Would have too if Dean hadn't woke him up and dragged him into the small bathroom of the motel they were staying in to keep him safe.

He can't now though.

Every little sound's too loud - drilling into his head.

He thinks.

The noise in his head is louder than even that hurricane.

When they'd been kids, Sam remembers their dad being gone for days. Too many instances to count. Too many for it to be anything but normal to Sam. And he'd grown up knowing the words, 'gonna be a few more days, Sammy' like other kids knew 'eat your greens.'.

It was never a big deal.

Sam hadn't known it should be. He'd just nodded at Dean and asked him when they could get some more Lucky Charms because they were almost out. He'd just always trusted his brother to take care of everything.

He never noticed the way Dean's shoulders would tense up, how he seemed unable to sit still during the days following one of those announcements. Not until the Christmas Dean told him the truth.

Sam remembers Dean getting off the phone with John on Boxing day; his shoulders sagging and bottom lip bitten raw. He'd listened to Dean's quiet, "Yes, sir. Of course. Yes. I will," as he hung up the phone, and Sam had noticed, for the first time, that his brother's voice broke as he said, 'gonna.'

That night Sam hadn't been able to sleep.

He'd watched Dean, lying with his back to Sam, the way his breaths weren't even enough for sleep and had asked, "Dean, is it dangerous? What he does? He's going to be okay, right?"

Sam closes his eyes, wraps a hand around the amulet around his neck; presses it into the skin of his chest so that he can feel every edge of the metal.

He hears, clear as a bell, "Course he is, Sammy. He's a fucking superhero. Superheroes don't die." But the room hadn't felt any warmer to Sam and Dean's voice had been too shaky.

"I'm cold," Sam had said and Dean had rolled over, pulled up the comforter and replied, "Come here, squirt."

Sam had been eight and Dean had stopped just hugging him two years before, swapped it for affectionate hair ruffling that pissed Sam the hell off for the same reason that Dean liked it.

There were exceptions though.

Sam had slid under Dean's comforter, let his brother draw him in close, pressing his nose into the crook of Dean's arm and closing his eyes. He'd tried not to think of the things outside that their dad might be fighting and then Dean had said, "'s okay, Sammy. I'm here."

"Can't sleep?" Hermione asks.

Sam shifts his gaze away from the spider, looks at figure haloed by light in the doorway. His eyes feel hot – itchy - but he doesn't dare lift a hand to rub them.

"Umm," Sam acknowledges. He eyes Hermione curiously and wonders what her excuse is. It's tempting to ask just to have something else to focus on.

Hermione steps into the room, flicks the switch on a floor lamp on; banishes her silhouette. She tightens the cord on her dressing gown, folds her arms. "I'm going to get myself a cup of hot milk. Want some?"

"Depends," Sam answers, pushing himself up from the chair. "Is it going to be drugged again?" His voice is a hard edge, accusing, and Sam's not sure if he wouldn't prefer not knowing and just accepting the cup anyway, pretending obliviousness. He knows if she offers it to him, he'll turn it down.

Hermione pauses before answering. Her lips flatten and sag, and she looks away. "No. I just thought you needed - But, no. That's not – long term." She falters, fiddles with the ties again.

"Milk would be good," Sam says. He thinks the other conversation is not one either of them want to have. "Can I help?"

"You said, earlier, that you'd tell me how you met Dean," Sam says.

Hermione's just put his cup down on the kitchen table. He'd been fiddling with his hands, tracing a scar on the back of his left one, his eyes on them rather than her.

She turns back to the kitchen counter, pours her own cup of milk, and nods. "Yes. I did." She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly blowing the air over the top of her mug as she lifts it up. "I don't know where to start," she admits, turning back to the table.

Sam's back is all tense lines and frustration. He makes the air crackle and she's suddenly glad she's not empathic. She doesn't know how anyone would hold up under the weight of the emotions rolling off him. As it is, Hermione feels the pressure of them like a hard kick straight back into her own past.

Maybe a sedative would have been a good idea after all, but she thinks it would have been the selfish choice.

The easy one.

She makes too many of those. It's a habit she's sure she should have broken by now. After everything.

"You said he was on a hunt. What was he hunting?"

Hermione pulls a chair out and sits down. "Local curse," she answers and thinks about looking down her path, past the gate and seeing Dean's sleek black car that first time.

Sam's cheek twitches and his eyes narrow when Hermione fails to elaborate.

"There's a piece of land, other side of the town. Developers bought it up after the old woman who owned it passed away. This was just before I'd moved into town. I guess, early to mid two thousand and one."

Sam nods, takes a sip of his milk.

Hermione watches him for a moment, takes a drink of her own milk. She thinks of Harry after Sirius died. The way he'd eat up any and all stories of his parents and their friends, the way he'd looked when Hagrid had told them tales of them down in his cabin.

"I'd looked at the house and the land by extension. It was self contained and seemed like it might be what I was looking for. A little more open than I'd have liked, but it was far enough out of town to offer some degree of privacy and I thought I could always plant some fast growing trees." Hermione pauses. "Is this okay? Do you want me to -"

"No." Sam looks up. Looks at Hermione. "No, it's good. I want to know."

The sentence hangs like it's unfinished, like there's something more to come, but Sam stays quiet, closes his mouth.

Hermione hears the ending as clear as if he'd said it anyway. She reaches across the table, lays her hand on Sam's arm.

He looks down at it, moves his arm to pick his drink back up. Hermione's hand falls away, knocks against the table and she pulls it back.

She thinks about the stories Dean would tell about his brother – the touchy feely one, always wanting to 'talk about his fucking emotions.' Her lips tilt down just a fraction.

Hermione nods, she opens her mouth to start again, but Sam cuts in.

"Do you have some paper?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow. She lifts her hand, pushes her hair back behind her ears. "Umm -"

"It's easier to concentrate when I can take notes," Sam says. "I've been doing it so long, when we're investigating cases, you know? It feels wrong to listen to you and not – write it down. You know?"

Hermione feels her cheeks heat and she gives a small, self conscious smile. "I – Yeah, it does. I forgot you were -" Hermione hesitates, bites her lip. "Dean always used to say how alike we were."

Sam frowns, looks like he wants to ask something, but Hermione cuts in first.

"Let me get you one of my notepads, then we can get back to the story."

Sam's nodding as she turns to the door that leads back to the main room and her desk.

"You knew my brother pretty well then?" Sam asks, all his petulance from earlier back in his voice.

"As well as he let me," Hermione answers, walking through the doorway.

When she steps back into the kitchen Sam's got his arms crossed on the table, back slumped over as he rests his forehead against one arm.

"Do you want to call it a night?" Hermione asks. Sam looks tired, his eyes rimmed red and heavy. While Hermione's own milk hasn't done a thing to bring on drowsiness she doubts she's been sleeping half as bad as Sam has the last few months. Maybe it's just catching up. She remembers that feeling; going too long without any kind of a decent rest and then just crashing out for a week - everything too much.

"Nah," Sam replies. "I'm good."

He takes the notepad and pen from Hermione, lips turning up in a forced half smile. "Thanks," he says. "Sorry."

Hermione shrugs and doesn't ask what for. She sits back down.

"I didn't get the house. Obviously!" Hermione gives a small laugh and Sam's shoulders lose some of their tenseness. He picks up the pen.

"As I said, developers bought it. I'd found this place by then. I wasn't bitter. This suited my needs better in the end; more private, less land to maintain, just what I'd been looking for. Anyway, it took a few months for the planning permission to go through, but they finally got the go ahead for a new mall. That's when it started."

"I'm not one to really listen to most of the gossip that goes on around here," the waitress says, flicking her hair back over her shoulder and leaning in across the counter conspiratorially. "Not the type."

Dean raises an eyebrow, can't help looking down past her face to the cleavage framed between crossed arms. Dean would actually bet that she's exactly the type, and probably starts half of it to boot. "Course not," he replies, giving her a grin. He flicks his eyes up, lifts his eyebrows slightly and adds, "But working somewhere like this -"

She laughs and it actually does wonders for her. "People talk, yeah. Especially when their tongues have been loosened by a few drinks."

Dean takes a sip of his own and nods, his hand lifting to loosen his tie.

"This woman moved into the old Gravely place last year. She'd been looking around town for a while. I heard a few folks say she had her eye on a different house, bigger plot, but developers out bid her on that one. Good job too, Mall's gonna bring a lot of jobs to the area."

"And you think she has something to do with the illnesses?"

"Look, I don't believe in curses or whatever else the rest of the town wants to call what's been happening."

Dean frowns and looks down at his notebook, wondering if it's really so much better to be so oblivious, and automatically thinks of Sam and how he'd always seemed a little quieter after he'd known the truth, a little more withdrawn. How the next time John had been packing up to go on a hunt Sam had feigned a stomach bug to try and make him stay.

"But I know that there's something wrong there. The woman, she – She kinda creeps me the hell out. And then there's the other stuff."

Dean takes the bait, knows she's drawing this out, going for maximum drama whilst simultaneously trying to keep his attention longer. "What other stuff?" he asks.

"Peter Eliot. He's a teacher at the elementary school, had quite the crush on her. I think he took her out once or twice too. Anyway, he took her home one night. Her car had broken down in town. I don't know what happened but he didn't speak for three days. Not a single word. To anyone. Sent a letter into the school explaining that he couldn't come in."

She looks pointedly at Dean, clearly impressed by this particular detail's weirdness.

Dean looks over the half a page of sparse notes, sighs and looks up at her. "Is that all?" he asks.

Chloe's (or Carla's, Carrie's, whatever her name is) face falls. She pulls back from the bar, readjusts her top so that she's less on show. "Like I said, I don't really listen to gossip.

Dean nods, takes a final swig of his beer and stands. "Well, thanks for your help, Claire." He says, tucking his pen into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"It's Clarice," the waitress corrects.

Dean just hums absently, checking through the messages on his phone. There's one from his dad, checking up on how Dean's doing with the case, no mention of the Banshee John's hunting on his own. Dean frowns and tries not to feel bitter. There's another one, this time from Sam. Dean smiles as he clicks 'open' and reads it.

Happy Birthday for tomorrow, bro.

It's simple and takes Dean all of five seconds to read. So he reads it again. Twice. Then clicks save and flips the phone shut.

Dean feels the black hole in his stomach pulse and expand. He's half tempted to lean over the bar, catch Clarice's hand, give her a wink and say sorry. See if maybe she'll let him take her out back to the car park; fuck her in the back seat of the Impala.

He wonders if it would hurt less if Sam called more often, if maybe it would be easier if he just stopped. Dean thinks the possibility of the latter's more likely, but he doesn't really think it would have the desired effect though.

Instead, he turns to the door, pauses and turns back. "How do I get to this old Gravely place then?"

Sam smiles. It's not a happy one, it's twisted and wry; self deprecating. "Dean and Jess shared the same birthday."

"Your girlfriend?" Hermione asks.

She doesn't look like she's particularly interested in the answer. She looks like she already knows and that the question was just her way of being polite and making conversation.

"Dean told you," Sam says, and she nods.

"Sort of. He didn't say her name, just that she -" Hermione stutters mid sentence, looks down at the table and her drink.

A year ago, Sam thinks he might have said 'It's okay' and reassured her, instead he watches her flounder and finds some kind of perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that for the first time since he's met her she doesn't look totally self assured and composed.

"I'm, er, sorry."

She looks uncomfortable and the words sound unsure, like she's already regretting them as soon as she sounds the first syllable. Sam takes a drink to hide the up-tilt of his lips.

"Merlin! I can't believe I said that. I hate it when people say that. It always sounds so hollow."

"Yeah." Sam replies. "I know. Carry on."

Dean knocks on the door, turns around and looks around the small garden.

He'd had to stop off at the gas station just outside the town for extra directions and now the light's failing. He looks at his watch and rubs a hand across the back of his neck, thinks maybe he should have just headed back to the motel, checked in with his dad.

The garden's planted up neat; postcard perfect picket fence surrounding it. He notes some familiar plants; can't remember the names of all of them though. Sam would, kid was a freak with stuff like that. Dean recognises enough to guess there are a fair amount of herbs amongst the collection. It could just be a kitchen garden, but could equally belong to someone with experience of or links to hunting.

Could be a witch's. Mixing up potions and casting curses on the locals.

That's certainly what the town's people would have him think; what Clarice would have him think.

The man in the station had frowned when Dean had asked about the house and its owner, said he should stay away; that weird things happened around that house of late. When Dean had asked, he'd just said, 'some of the local kids have seen stuff', and that 'nothing good has happened to the town since she moved in.'

Dean's stands in the garden and snorts.

He's not naïve. Dean knows evil things can come in some pretty damn innocent looking packages. But he trusts his instincts and this just doesn't feel right. He hasn't even met the woman yet, but it feels – It feels like superstition and Chinese whispers. It fees like locals mistrusting someone new.

Still, doesn't hurt to check it out at least. He's made mistakes before. Once. And look what happened then, he'd nearly got Sammy killed.

He turns around again, lifts his hand to knock at the door a second time.

"Can I help you?"

Dean stops, hand caught mid knock and looks to right. There's a woman standing by the edge of the house.

Dean assesses her quickly. Like he would any potential threat. What he sees is a young woman, British accent that would make her stand out all the more, wild brown hair and beautiful in a kind of understated way; like she has no interest, like this is just who she is.

He thinks of Sammy and smiles.

She's wearing rolled up jeans, sandals and a white tee. One hand hovers by her right hip, thumb tucked inside her jeans pocket, the other holds a basket laden with freshly cut plants, Dean can see the end of a carrot sticking out through the pile of foliage.

He lets his hand drop, fingers loosening as the instinctive urge to pull his gun falls away.

"Hi, my name's Agent Bowie. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?" he asks, smiling.

"Bowie?" the woman asks, eyebrow raised and a more than a little suspicious.

"Yeah," Dean replies, taking a step forward and wondering if maybe he was wrong. She's looking at him like she can see straight through him, like he's something to be solved or deciphered and Dean can see why she would put the town's folk on edge.

She watches him for a few beats then takes a deep breath and smiles back.

"I take it you have some id, Agent? Before I ask you in for tea and this little chat."

Dean nods, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fake badge. The woman moves forward, looks it over, looks towards the fence and his car, and then up at him.

"You'd better come on in then."

Hermione rests her chin on her hand; swallows down the last dregs of her drink. Sam's arms are folded on the tabletop, his head resting on them and eyes closed.

She looks down into the empty bottom of her cup, pulls her hand across her eyes and shifts, moving to stand up; wash the cups and head to bed.

"What happened next?" Sam says, eyes open and blinking up at Hermione, looking as sleepy as his voice.

"You should get some more rest," Hermione tries, reaching for Sam's cup.

"Not tired enough yet."

Hermione laughs, can't help it. Sam sounds like Teddy when Harry's trying to get him to bed; all petulant protestation, even his bottom lip looks like it's protruding in a pout.

Sam scowls up at her, his wrinkled brow making him seem even younger. It's easy to imagine stepping back in time, Sam having this discussion with Dean. She'd bet Dean folded every time too. Just the hint of those eyes were probably enough to bend every ounce of Dean's will to Sam's.

Hermione feels a pang in her chest and slides back into the chair. "Okay."

Sam's props his chin up on his arms, looks up at her through a curtain of brown bangs. Hermione wants to reach out, slide a hand through them and push them back off his face, tell him he needs a hair cut. Just like she used to with Harry.

"He wasn't very subtle," she starts and Sam almost cracks a smile. He seems to realise at the last minute, swallowing it away like some forbidden thing and Hermione knows that guilt.

She looks down to the tabletop, follows the grain in the wood and breathes out, concentrates on the story.

"Have you heard much about the mall development on the other side of town? Dean asks, closing the front door behind him. His eyes do a quick sweep of the room, checking for anything that stands out; any risks.

The woman's standing further inside by a desk and when Dean looks across at her she's got her eyebrow quirked, head cocked to one side. She still has the basket hooked over one arm, but her other hand is on her hip – expectant, Dean thinks, and maybe a little amused. He frowns and looks around, trying to clue himself in on the joke.

She lets out a sigh, says, "Hard not to. It's a little bit of a big deal for most people around here." She brushes her hair back of her face, huffs when the curls fall back into her eyes almost straight away and slides the basket off her arm onto the desk.

"So, this is about the spate of sicknesses, right, Agent?" she asks, tugging a band from around her wrist and pulling her hair into a pony tail.

Dean's eyes narrow in suspicion. She's still smiling, cocky and sure and Dean's pretty damn sure by now that he's missing something.

"Umm," he hums, walking towards the bookcase and running his eyes across the titles that do nothing to settle the unease in his stomach. He looks back across the room towards the woman, but she hasn't moved.

"Malleus Maleficarum. The Barddas of Iolo Morganwg?" Dean asks, voice fumbling the pronunciation of the second title. Dean coughs and strokes a thumb down the spine of one of the books before continuing. "Unusual collection of books you've got here."

The woman's smile breaks into a full out grin. "Iolo Morganwg," she says, pronouncing the fucked up collection of constantans and vowels carefully and with the same air Sam had whenever he was correcting Dean's Latin. "I translate occult texts for a living. It's a specialist area. I find it helpful to know the background of the subjects I'm translating. It helps with the accuracy of the interpretation. That one's really not very accurate though. Morganwg was a bit of a bard you see, that wasn't even his real name. He liked to embellish and create, but there are elements that seem to have some foundation." She pauses, seems to consider something for a moment, then steps forward, leaving just a few feet between herself and Dean. "Did they tell you I'm not right, Agent? That I inexplicably give men colds when I don't take them to my bed?"

Dean feels his fingers twitch, knuckles flexing and knocking against his thigh with a reflexive need to reach for the gun in the holster beneath his jacket or the knife strapped to his ankle.

She doesn't make an offensive move though, just stretches her hand out and says, "My name's Hermione. Nice to meet you. Agent."

Dean has the distinct impression from the inflection she puts on that word she's just as suspicious of him as he is of her.

Dean takes her hand anyway, shakes it and nods. "Locals sure don't seem very fond of you, Hermione."

Hermione laughs and shakes her head. "No. Guess they don't. It's not that easy being an outsider in a close knit community."

She's looking at Dean like there's a question in that statement and he feels the truth of it more than he's willing to admit. He knows too well how being new makes it easy to point the finger, especially when you don't quite fit in. He's willing to bet with that accent, this collection of books and her profession that Hermione doesn't fit in very well at all.

Still, it doesn't make her innocent either.

Hermione nods. "How about I make some – coffee? And then I can tell you a little about what I know of these so called illnesses?"

Dean's eyes snap up sharp at that.

"And in return," she adds, "maybe you can be a bit more honest about who you are and why you're here."

"Did you fuck him straight away?" Sam's voice is resentful and full of challenge.

Hermione flushes, can't help it. The question's too personal and too crudely put with the tone Sam inflects on the wording to initiate any other response. She coughs. Anyone else she'd tell to mind their own business, with Sam though she thinks he'd argue the point that it is his business and there's something Hermione finds herself unable to deny about that.

She brushes the discomfort off and says, "No," with a smile. "I'm not quite that easy, Sam." She pauses then adds more honestly, "I didn't date much. I haven't dated much. It's not something -" she flails, gesturing randomly with her hands and trying to catch onto a way to explain her hesitation without going into the specifics of her childhood and the subsequent fallout, the way it affected her so called love life. In the end, she just says, "It was the first time in ages that someone had asked me who I'd been actually interested in. Dean was – He was interesting and clever; good at his job. He made me laugh and it's -" She shrugs. "It was unexpected. I won't deny I considered it."

"But my brother was gonna be leaving town in a few days?" Sam says, sounding quieter, more placated.

Talking to Sam is like a rollercoaster of emotions, half the time he seems to be pushing her for something, the other half he just seems sad, resigned.

"Yes," she answers, tracing the top of her cup with one finger.

"So what happened?"

"After we removed the curse or after I said no?"

Sam shrugs.

"I offered to make him dinner, but he said he should head back out. That he had another job lined up." She shrugs and Sam nods, forestalling any further explanation. "I told him he could call me if he ever needed any advice on this kind of thing."

Hermione smiles; remembers pressing a piece of paper with her number and email into Dean's hand as they stood outside the Impala, saying, "Call me if you need anything."

Dean's eyes had lit up with a smirk and a leer. "Anything eh? You sure you don't want to get that drink?

Hermione twists a curl at the nape of her neck around a finger, hears herself several years younger saying, "I'm sure," and not being anything of the sort.

"I take it he took you up on the offer?"

"Yes. Two months later he called me up about a case up in New Brunswick - a tribe of Red Caps whose forest was being reduced due to a logging company making way for new housing. It was bringing them in closer contact to more humans, hence some clashes."

"Red Caps?" Sam asks, confused. "But Dean – he knows how to take out a bunch of fucking Red Caps."

"Umm," Hermione agrees. "I know. I think – I'd been translating a book on races of the Fae when we'd met that first time. I guess I'd had it open on one of the pages on Red Caps or something when he'd been up here. Or he'd looked through."

"Oh," Sam says, then, "Because you turned him down."

Hermione looks down, shrugs.

"It was near by, I guess. He'd just asked if I knew much about Red Caps, and when I said, some, he asked if I fancied working together again. Said he could do with a hand."

"You fell for that?" Sam asks.

"No I – I really didn't think he'd be interested anymore. That he was just -" Hermione pauses, looks at Sam and then away. "Lonely."

Sam swallows, throat working, a twitch in his cheek. Hermione wishes she could take it back.

"Sam. It's okay. He understood. He was proud of you. I just – I don't think he liked working alone much. That job where we met, was one of the first your Dad had sent him out on alone. He wasn't really used to it, I guess. And with me – he had an excuse. He could pass it off as something else." She blushes as she says it.

Sam's quiet for a minute, Hermione doesn't break it by continuing her story. Instead she just watches Sam breathe, his head face down in his arms, back rising and falling slowly.

"You didn't think he was interested," Sam says at last.

"I – I thought he'd get bored quick enough. When he realised I was too much work for too little return."

"So, you went?"

"Yeah, Blaise, my - friend," Hermione still finds referring to Blaise as that awkward, mainly because she can always picture his face so clearly - this mask of condescension, whenever she says it. "He thought it would be good for me."

Hermione hadn't been so sure. She'd questioned the practicalities. Wasn't even sure their methods were compatible given the way Dean had announced he was going to 'hang the mother-fucking little Red Caps out to dry.' Locating and breaking down a curse together had been one thing, the control of Magical Creatures sympathetically yet responsibly quite another.

Still she'd gone, had told herself it was to make sure Dean wasn't needlessly violent, that it was sensible and that Red Caps were notoriously sneaky and he should have someone else around to watch his back.

So, Hermione had done what she did best and focussed on her job. And she really wouldn't have contemplated anything more if not for Dean.

After they'd subdued the small horde, which was surprisingly short work; Dean was efficient and quick and took Hermione's direction and advice without question – she'd been impressed. More so than before with the curse when Dean had seemed frustrated and itchy in his own skin.

"This time you didn't say no." Sam made it a statement not a question, he seemed almost disappointed.

Hermione shook her head. "No, I did. Said no, I mean."

Sam looks up and she smiles at him through a blush.

After, Hermione had been busy bundling the limp bodies up in a net imbued with a strong Sleeping Charm. She'd been focussed on getting them fully secured, ready for transportation to a reserve where there wouldn't be a local Muggle population to be put at risk.

Dean had grabbed her wrist, turned her around, grinned and wiped something she really didn't want to contemplate the origin of off the side of her nose. And suddenly everything had potential again and Hermione had felt sick and a little giddy.

"You gonna turn that night cap down again, or is it worth me asking one more time?"

"He just didn't give up. Next time, he called for help, was about a month later." Hermione laughs at the memory. "He promised me he'd take me to dinner as payment, said he knew I was regretting turning him down the last time so he'd give me another chance. Time after that he just turned up at my door with a case of a cursed necklace and seventeenth century Herbology text behind his back."

Hermione bites her lip. Shrugs. "The fifth time he dragged me to a rare book shop two states over under the guise of a haunting. That time I said yes. Figured he wasn't going to get bored before he realised I wasn't worth it." Hermione didn't mention that Dean pressing her up against a bookcase, trailing his hand down her side, the smell of old books thick in the air and his voice in her ear had gone a long way to destroying her resolve.

Sam yawns and Hermione looks up at him. He looks at her with his head cocked, his eyes moving lazily over her face. "Thanks," he says.

Hermione nods. "You want some more milk?"

"Naw, I'm good." He sits up, stretching out the muscles in his back. "Gonna try and get some more sleep."

Hermione nods and stays seated while she watches Sam stand and stretch, turning back towards the sitting room.

He pauses in the doorway though. "Didn't you want more?" Sam's voice sounds like he's asking something else, his face looks like he's saying something else.

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it and swallows wetting her throat that's drier than she realised from too much talking. She's not used to it anymore.

"It was enough," she says and picks the two cups up from the table as Sam turns back towards the couch.


	4. Chapter 3

Hermione's not around when Sam wakes up in the morning.

He lies back down on the couch and just listens for a while, trying to find sounds that would indicate someone else in the house besides him. The cabin's silent though. He can hear the wind outside, thinks maybe Hermione has left a window open somewhere because he can hear the birds more clearly than he thinks he should be able to. There are no footsteps though; no sound of anyone human sized moving about.

Yawning, he pushes up, the pressure on his bladder to insistent to allow him to ignore it any longer. He pulls on his jeans, doesn't bother with the fly and shuffles down the corridor to the bathroom.

He opens the medicine cupboard above the toilet while he takes a piss, hand dropping back down to push up under his t-shirt and scratch his stomach while he peruses the shelves. He doesn't find anything interesting; a whole shelf of what looks like homemade herbal products, some with hand written labels that make them look like they were bought at a arts and crafts fair, two extra tubes of toothpaste that look out of place with their marketed packaging, and a packet of contraception pills.

Sam pulls the latter out and studies the name on the prescription label – Hermione Granger - then pushes the box back inside the cupboard, squeezing it back in between a bottle of amber liquid and a tub of pearlescent cream.

He shakes off, tucks his dick back into his boxers and pulls up his fly.

The door opposite creaks open a fraction when Sam opens the bathroom door. He steps back, anticipating making room for another person in the narrow corridor, but it's just the ginger cat. It arches its back and looks up at Sam as though it's assessing him.

Dean had never liked cats much; he thought they were too fickle. Sam's sure it comes from the time they lived in Oregon for two months whilst their dad was trying to track down a group of cultists.

There'd been this bedraggled little tabby hanging around the place where they were staying – all skin and bones and matted fur. Dean had took to trying to coax it in; plates of leftovers and a few tins of cat food he'd swiped from the general store where he'd managed to get a part-time job. It had taken him about a week but he'd got it lapping milk from a dish on their kitchen floor, pleased as punch with his handiwork.

Sam leans against the door frame, stares down at the cat and remembers Dean clear as a bell. See's his brother leaning back against the kitchen counter, grinning at Sam And saying, "See, nothing to it. I'm freaking awesome with animals."

The next day, after Dean had picked Sam home from school, they'd pulled up into their drive and the cat had been sitting in the window of one of the houses across the street, licking its paws contentedly. Dean had grumbled, murmured something about 'fucking freeloading felines' and stomped up into the house, dropping something glittery into the bin as he moved past Sam to switch on the TV.

Sam had hated the cat a little after that too; for putting that look on his brother's face, he just hadn't held it against the whole of it's species.

He drops to a crouch in the hallway and stretches his hand out towards Hermione's cat, his palm towards the floor. He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and drops his eyes away from the cat's.

He wonders how Dean dealt with Hermione's pet, wonders if it was ever a source of tension.

It takes a few minutes of just sitting there, but then he feels the brush of fur against his skin and when he glances up the cat's rubbing its chin against the edge of his hand, purring lightly.

Sam smiles, reaches out and pulls the ginger fur ball up into his arms. "How about we go look for some food, eh?" he says standing up. The cat struggles for a moment, awkward and trying to find a way to settle in Sam's arms, but at the mention of food it mews loudly and digs its head into Sam's chest.

Sam makes his way into the kitchen, puts the cat down on the table and moves over to the counter.

Hermione's got one of the old fashioned kettles, the type you boil on the stove and that lets you know it's ready with a high pitched whistle. Sam lifts it from the stove and fills it up under the tap at the sink; just enough for two cups in case Hermione gets back.

He feels weird puttering around her house in such a familiar way. It makes Sam feel off balance and awkward like he did every time John dropped them at Caleb's when they were kids.

He pulls open a couple of the cupboards looking for cereal or something else to eat for breakfast. He settles on the breadbin and two of the slices of bread from inside, popping them in the toaster before searching out the coffee and sugar.

The cat meows on the table, its tail puffed up in irritation. Sam finds himself apologising to it without thinking, moving past it to the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk. It meows again, jumps down and rubs its back up against Sam's leg, purring happily.

"Manipulating much?" Sam asks, pouring out a dish of milk and setting it on the floor.

He turns back to the counter and his toast, sees a curl of smoke just starting to lift and swears. He pops the toast - black on one side and leaking a burnt smell that crawls up Sam's nostril. It makes him want to hurl; the smell thick and cloying and lifting memories of dreams he keeps trying to push to one side.

The kettle starts to whistle as Sam drops the toast in the bin. He moves back to the stove, turning off the gas with one hand while his other reaches for the window, lifting the catch and pushing it open. He leans forward across the counter, pushing slightly up so that he can stick his head out the window breathe in the fresh clean air from outside. He closes his eyes, blocks out the stench of smoke and tries to shut a door on the images of Dean that they invoke. When he opens them again, he looks down and sees a familiar groove running the length of the sill.

He traces the routed line with his finger, feels the rough salt filling it up beneath the coat of varnish. When he looks closer he notices a small ring of runes at one end, unfamiliar and unlike any he's seen before in either his Dad's journal or Bobby's books. There's a similar ring at the other end and Sam frowns and pulls back just as the door from the garden opens.

"Morning," Hermione says, pulling off her coat and hanging it loosely on the back of a chair. She glances between Sam and the toaster. "Sorry, it's broken. I keep meaning to drive into town and get a new one. If you give me a minute, I can make some porridge."

Sam leans back against the counter, almost tall enough to perch his ass on the edge of the low worktop. He nods, then decides he should probably say something more. "That would be good. Thanks."

Hermione hums in reply, picks up a basket of logs from the floor and heads into the sitting room with it.

The door outside blows open, light breeze blowing in along with some stray leaves. Sam stands up and walks over on the pretext of shutting it. He curls a fist around the handle, and bends down to look at the step, sees the same familiar line of varnished salt with the odd circle of runes at either end. When he stands back up and closes the door he notices the line of runes etched into the central beam running down the door.

Hermione appears back in the doorway and glances over at Sam as she dusts her hands off on the legs of her jeans. "Thanks! I couldn't have caught the latch properly, it's a bit finicky. I usually have to lock it when I don't want it open.

Sam nods, watches her move over to a cupboard and pull out a jar of oats and a pot. She pauses and looks down at the cat, fond expression on her face. "You little sod, Crooks." She huffs, leaning down to ruffle the fur on the animal's neck.

"You know, much as I'm certain he loves you for it, you shouldn't really give him cow's milk. It's not good for their stomachs. Most people don't realise, but the majority of cats are lactose intolerant."

"Sorry," Sam says automatically, more focussed on the bundles of herbs hanging to dry from the ceiling. He recognises a fair few, notes a number that have associated properties of protection, but the majority he thinks are only known for their medicinal qualities. "I didn't know."

"Oh, it's okay," Hermione says, pouring some milk from the carton Sam left out into the pan. "I'm sure Crooks knew exactly what he was doing." She pauses, setting the pan on the stove, then looks over her shoulder at Sam, grinning as wide as Dean whenever he'd played a prank on Sam. "Besides he'll probably be your best friend for the rest of the day now, so you can deal with his lactose intolerant farts."

Sam cuts his eyes to Hermione sharply.

She's still smiling and she lets out a small laugh before turning back to the stove.

Great," Sam snarks. He watches the line of her back, her arm shifting as she stirs the porridge.

"There's supposed to be a storm due in tonight," Hermione says, voice a little awkward like she's not sure how to make conversation now.

Sam's sure he sees her shoulders tense just a fraction as soon as she's said it. Six months ago, he'd have tried to put her at ease. Instead, he says, honestly curious, "What are the runes on the door and windowsill."

Hermione glances over at him, small frown on her face. "Er – Sorry, huh?"

"The runes." Sam clarifies, and walks over to the door, runs his hand down the line. "I'm pretty sure Dean taught you the salt trick. He always used to do it to any place we stayed more than a couple of weeks. But these runes and the ones on the windowsill - I haven't ever seen anything like these before. Their formation seems completely different from anything I've come across."

Hermione runs her tongue across her lips, cuts her eyes to the left and doesn't answer straight away.

Sam doesn't repeat the question, just waits, can't help but study the different lines of the runes again, trying to find some point of reference.

She turns the gas off, pours the porridge into two bowls and then answers. "You're right. Dean showed me the salt trick, but didn't he show me the runes. I was using them before I met your brother. They're for protection. They're fairly ancient which is why they probably appear unfamiliar to you. Honestly, I don't think there's more than a handful of books in general circulation that you could have come across them in. I'm – specialised."

Sam nods, knows he sounds too eager when he says, "Do you still have any of the books?"

Hermione's lips tilt. "Sorry," she says, and sounds honestly regretful.

"Could you teach me some of them though? What you remember?"

Hermione bites her lip, lifts the bowls up and sets them on the table. "Maybe, but I'm fairly busy right now. Come on, better eat this before it gets cold."

"Are these your parents?"

Hermione looks up from her desk at the question. Sam's standing by one of the bookcases, a photo frame in his hand, the picture angled towards her. She looks at him, runs over the sounds she'd heard but not taken in - hums. All she can hear is the line of text she'd been working on; the two possible variations of intent she'd been trying to ascertain correctly using the only two scrolls she'd been able to find to use as a key. She'd told Blaise she would have the translation of the eighteenth century Centaur text done by next Friday, and right now she thinks she might miss her deadline. It's not urgent and Blaise would understand, but – Hermione clucks her tongue against her cheek and scowls – she hates not finishing something on time.

Sam inclines his head, nudges the photo forward slightly – waits.

Hermione shakes her head, puts down her pencil and shuffles the chair around slightly. "I'm sorry, I was concentrating," she apologises. She looks back down to the photo, recognises the image all too clearly and hesitates. When she speaks she can hear the hic-cup of nerves in her voice, "What did you say, again?"

"I just asked -" Sam pauses. With his free hand he sweeps the hair back off his face, steps back. He turns the picture in his hand and drops his gaze to the left.

Like Dean, Hermione thinks. More than she expected.

"It doesn't matter. Bad habit." Sam says.

Hermione thinks she should let it go. Take the out he's given her and avoid the discomfort of what may follow if she does answer.

"My Mum and Dad," she say's instead, and stands up. She walks over to Sam, moves past him to the shelf. She strokes the top edge of the frame with her thumb, runs it down the side, pushes it into the ledge of the bottom right hand corner. "We always used to go to my Aunt's house in France in the summer."

"You don't anymore?" Sam asks.

Hermione snorts and it sounds bitter even to her. She thinks about the books she's read on dealing with loss and depression. How they'd all agreed it was such an important step - talking about these instigating life events. She looks up at Sam.

"You and Dean didn't talk much, right?"

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"I mean... about stuff."

Sam's eyebrow goes higher, his lip quirks.

"I'm usually a lot more eloquent than this," she says. "Merlin!"

"We talked." Sam says, and the tilt drops from his lips. "But Dean, he -" Sam stalls, mouth open and moving.

"I know," Hermione says. "I – I'd guessed."

Sam nods.

"They're in Australia. Stuff happened that I was involved in. It was safer. I -" Hermione stops mid sentence, looks down at the floor, the way that the wood needs polishing. She breathes in, long and slow, lets it out and does not look up. "It was selfish," she says. "I didn't want to have to worry about them." I didn't want to have to explain, she adds silently.

Sam doesn't say anything.

Hermione watches his hand flex, lift up a fraction and drop back down against his side. She wants to cough and clear her throat, but her mouth's too dry and it doesn't seem to be working.

Fingers squeeze her shoulder and Hermione's head snaps up, eyes focussing on them. She looks at Sam, but he's looking at his hand. She thinks maybe he's as surprised as her by the offer of comfort - who it's coming from and where it's directed.

His hand falls away, clenches into a fist before he stuffs it inside the front pocket of the hoodie he's wearing. "Did it work?" he asks.

Hermione's falters and has to back track the conversation, but then she drops her head again. When she lifts it, she keeps her chin high, making eye contact with Sam and keeping the waver out of her voice. She holds perfectly steady – perfectly sure. "Yes," she says.

"Do you visit them?" Sam's voice has an odd edge to it – thick, like a child about to cry, but there's no hint of tears in his eyes or in the set of his face.

Hermione bites her lip and her fingers itch to pick up the photo frame. She doesn't. She looks along the closest shelf of books, moves down the row until she spots an old fairy tale book, one illustrated by Arthur Rackham that her dad used to read to her as a child.

She smiles, but doesn't feel the way it stretches her mouth. "Sometimes," she says. "It's not the same. As it was before. Too much has – we just don't seem to have that connection any more." What's not the same is that her parent's don't look at her the same way. Sometimes her dad forgets who she is entirely and then blames his age. Sometimes her mom will stop what she's doing, hold Hermione's cheek and ask what happened in that lost year, and she's never really sure exactly what to tell them. She'd tried telling her dad once, but he'd just looked at her like she was a stranger and said her name like it was an alien word.

"It was worth it though," she says. She looks up at Sam, searches his face and realises what she wants him to say is that it was; that she made the right choice.

He doesn't say anything, just hums. His hand reaches up and wraps around Dean's necklace, thumb wrapping itself up in the leather thong.

"Sometimes, I think Dean was glad I left," Sam says. "Dad, too. I think – Sometimes, when I look back it just seems that they gave in too easy. He could have got me to stay, you know? I know he could, but he didn't. He didn't try hard enough." Sam doesn't wait for a response, just huffs out a breath, blows his bangs back out of his eyes and says, "I should get my bag from the car."

Hermione stares at the familiar spine, the well known tears in the dust jacket. She murmurs an acknowledgement and Sam turns away.

"He visited you. I don't know about your dad, but Dean – I know he used to come check up on you. I thought - it was a two way thing."

Sam snorts. "Instead of a crazy 'lets-stalk-my-kid-brother' thing?"

Hermione laughs.

"I knew. I... I figured." Sam shrugs and turns back to the door.

Hermione straightens the frame on the shelf, looks too long at her thirteen year old self smiling up at the camera, her parents either side of her – carefree.

She sighs, thinks how long ago that moment feels and turns back to her desk.

When Sam found the picture it was a pure accident.

He wasn't looking through Dean's stuff. Wasn't sorting it out like he'd accepted that his brother wasn't coming back. Because he hadn't. And Dean was.

Sam had hardly touched Dean's backpack since everything had gone down.

When he'd booked into the first motel he'd come across (ditching Bobby two days after he'd helped him bury Dean), Sam had done nothing more than to shift Dean's stuff from the Impala to the spare bed. Spare because it was all too ingrained in Sam to ask for two queens. Spare because Sam wasn't willing to just ask for one anyway.

And it had sat there for more than a month. Books growing up in piles around it; all of the tomes Sam had been able to find over the past year that dealt with the smallest hint of pacts or deals. All of the ones he'd found since; Dean's jacket, untouched amongst Sam's notes and his desperation and the box he'd buried at a crossroads one week to the day that Dean had died, until one random night as Sam had been downing the last dregs of a bottle of Jack.

Sam had been sitting on the edge of his bed, staring across the gap at the place where Dean should be lying back against the pillows; cracking jokes and flicking the channels on the shitty TV set until he found some porn or a cheesy seventies horror to make Sam roll his eyes and call him a dick.

His chest had felt tight and his head thick with alcohol – muzzy and confused but for Dean, Dean, Dean and nothing was fucking working. Everywhere he looked there was just - nothing.

Sam had turned his cell off one hour after leaving Bobby, fifteen minutes after it had started ringing repeatedly. He'd had to pull over and reach into the inner pocket of Dean's leather jacket ten minutes after that, turn off his brother's phone, shutting it up in the glove box with his own and their father's. It had been the last time he'd touched the coat, other than to dump it on the bed along with Dean's bag.

Sam had curled his hand around the only piece of his brother he couldn't bear not to have close, felt the sharp edges of the talisman dig into his palm, the way the metal warmed against his flesh until it felt like it was almost burning and stared at the familiar worn leather opposite.

Before he left for Stanford, before Dad got his truck and it was still the three of them in the Impala, Sam remembers too many occasions of falling asleep in the back seat, waking up to Dean leaning over the front bench; spreading his jacket over Sam and shushing him back to sleep.

The motel had been cold. The small storage heater had packed up two days earlier and Sam hadn't gotten around to reporting it yet. Couldn't be bothered because usually the buzz of alcohol thick in his veins would take away the chill, let him block everything leaving a blissful numbness humming through Sam's body.

It hadn't that night though and Sam had stood up, reached across the small space and pulled Dean's jacket from the bed, ignoring the book banging to the floor and instead just tugging the coat on. The smell of Dean had still been thick in the leather; clean tang of soap and gun oil heavy and reassuring in a way Jack just hadn't been that night.

Sam had lain back against his pillows, shoved his hand into one of the pockets and pulled out the lump that proved to be Dean's wallet. He flipped it open, stared at the picture of him and Dean that Pastor Jim had taken one summer when Sam was eleven and John was hunting a pack of werewolves in South Dakota.

Dean's face was all awkward angles as a teenager - attractive, but too sharp, too prominent to really sit at ease on his face. Sam had always thought his brother looked a little otherworldly. Dean had always said if anyone had Fae blood in them it was Sam. He's wondered since then if Dean had even thought back on that jibe and the near truth of it.

There'd been the edge of another photo peeking out from behind the bottom corner and Sam had tugged on it, pulling it free of the sheaf.

He'd expected one of the photos they'd found in Lawrence, maybe one of the few of John, but it wasn't.

Sam had brought the picture closer to his face. There was a crease dissecting the centre of it, but the image was still clear despite the break and curled edges. It was of a girl - early twenties, mass of brown hair and her nose buried in a book. She hadn't been looking at the camera, instead just lying on her belly on the grass, reading - relaxed and unaware. There was a cabin in the background that seemed distantly familiar and Dean's leather jacket in a heap beside her.

Sam's stomach had turned over, a tangible flip-flop of discomfort in his gut. He'd tossed the photo onto the bedside table, dumping the wallet on top of it, but not before pulling out the other photo, tucking it under his pillow.

He'd turned onto his front, tucked his head down until his nose brushed soft leather and he could almost make believe he was in the back of the Impala again, Dad and Dean up front and the low hum of the Eagles filling the car.

He thought about the girl in the photo; the trust her unaware posture inferred, the way that picture looked liked Dean had been carrying it around for years and that Sam had been at Stanford three years with hardly any contact.

Sam had drew in a deep breath, thought of the fact that he'd never pushed Dean past the whole 'Hunting things, saving people – getting laid by grateful damsels,' when Sam asked what he'd been up to.

It was a mistake he'd never considered before that moment.

Hermione's working again when Sam comes back into the cabin, his rucksack slung over his shoulder. She barely turns and glances at him; her head bent and preoccupied with the books once more.

Sam glances over at the bookshelf, sees the picture he'd picked up sitting perfectly straight upon the shelf once more.

He looks past it and feels suddenly awkward and out of place. His eyes settle on the bedding he'd used the night before, folded and piled up on the seat of one of the wing-back armchairs. He suddenly realises how presumptuous getting his things must seem because Hermione asked him to stay last night. And Sam gets why she would, knows he was strung out, that he probably still smelt of beer and too much alcohol and that no one half way decent would have let him get back behind a wheel like that. It's just she made no mention of beyond that. Sam's head's too clear and he realises he has no idea what to do next, where to go, except to find Lilith and cut the bitch's head off, but he's not even sure where he would start.

Sam licks his lips, runs his hand through his hair and feels his bag slip on his shoulder, slide down and catch on the joint of his elbow, knocking into the wall as it does so.

Hermione looks back up, swivelling around in her chair.

She's got her hair tied up, Sam notices, twisted into some kind of bun and pinned with what looks like a pencil. Sam smiles, remembers Jess doing the same thing when she was working on a piece for her art class and couldn't be bothered to move away long enough to find a band.

After Jess had died, Sam remembers comparing almost every girl that smiled at him to her; every girl Dean threw his way.

Hermione's not much like Jess; she's a hell of a lot less outgoing for a start. At least she seems that way. Sam can't imagine her walking up to him in a club pulling him down and telling him he's got something on his mouth before licking over his lips.

She's confident, but in a different way, it's more a self assuredness in herself and her abilities than the way Jess just seemed to be carefree.

He wonders what Dean said to her to get her into bed. Doesn't think it would have been Hermione taking the initiative, pushing that boundary.

Hermione's eyes are on his bag, and he drops his gaze away, down to it and back up. "Sorry," he says and lets it slide to his hand, fingers wrapping around the strap and hefting it back up.

Hermione's brow wrinkles and she cocks her head to the side in a way that's becoming familiar. "Umm," she says, frown lines deepening. "Did I miss something?"

Sam wants to explain, but his mouth works around the first word and he tries to remember a time when putting his point across came easily. In the end, he just shrugs and shuffles awkwardly on his feet.

Hermione stands up and shifts closer, stopping a few metres away. Sam catches her looking back to the desk, her teeth biting into her bottom lip.

"I'm just finishing up this chapter, but if you give me half an hour I could get the guest bedroom set up."

Sam looks up surprised, wants to ask again why she's being like this. He wants to know how close she was to Dean, if that's the reason why. Instead, he starts to say, "You don't have to," but Hermione ignores him and carries on.

"There's some work stuff I need to move out first, and It'll need clean sheets, been a while since anyone's –" her voice trails of fades into a cough and she jumps ahead, skips finishing that thought. "I wouldn't be a very good host if I let you take the couch again. Honestly, I'm surprised you fit at all."

Sam hadn't, not really. His ankles and feet had hung of the edge when he'd tried to stretch out on his stomach. He'd ended up having to sleep curled up on his side like he hadn't since he'd been fourteen.

Hermione's already turning back to her desk. She has her pen back in hand and she's shifting the chair, sliding into it.

"I don't -" Sam starts. "Is there a motel in town? I could stay there tonight, you don't have to -"

Hermione looks up at him with an expression that makes him wonder if he said all that in English or slipped into Latin.

"Sam," she says softly, there's pity in her voice and it makes the hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickle like they haven't since the day before and her story about Dean. "And do what? Get drunk again?"

Sam doesn't reply, can feel the truth in her words and hates Hermione a little for throwing it out there.

"You need to deal with this. You can't bury it in a bottle or something equally distracting."

Hermione's voice has gone introverted, her gaze dropping off to the floor and Sam steps closer. "You say that like you - know better." Sam says, eyes narrowed. He thinks back to their conversation about her parents and wants to know how and who. It feels important, like it might change something.

Hermione shakes her head, says, "Not better," in a barely there whisper. "Sam, stay. Please."

Sam lets his bag slide to the floor, he knocks it out of the path of the door with his foot, nods and mumbles, "Sure," then quieter, "Thanks."

Hermione takes longer than the half an hour she'd promised.

Sam lies back on the couch for a while, props his feet up on one arm and flicks through the novel lying bookmarked on the coffee table. He doesn't read much of it, can't focus enough to really get involved in the story. It's about a woman who works in her father's antique book store, the hint of a ghost story perhaps. Sam reads through the first chapter and pictures Hermione as the main character. He has to smile when he looks up and catches her bent in thought, tip of her pink tongue poking out through her lips as she reads.

"You're just Dean's type," he says without really thinking about it. He lies the book back down on the table, folds his arms behind his head and watches Hermione.

"Huh," she says. When she looks up she's got a pen between her lips and another in her hand.

"He liked to pretend he didn't care how slutty a girl was. I think because he thought it wound me up."

Hermione looks at him blankly.

Sam doesn't care, he leans back and closes his eyes. Thinks about how it did wind him tight, how it made him frustrated and exasperated all at once when Dean would just smirk, pull them closer and whisper in their ears.

"He hardly ever took them back with him though." Sam looks up then, tries to gauge Hermione's reaction. He's not sure if he's disappointed or pleased when he sees her just sitting there, watching him, face neutral.

"When we were at school, he always used to go out with the honour students. There'd be these girls on his arm with almost perfect 3.6 GPA's and up wanting to take him home and meet their parents and Dean would panic every time, get caught making out with some other girl and piss them off. I don't think he even realised he was doing it."

Hermione puts her pen down, closes her note book and leans back in her chair just waiting.

Sam shifts and leans forward, crossing his arms over the back of the couch and resting his chin on them.

"He says he doesn't - used to poke fun at me all the time for wanting to be normal, wanting a house and a dog and to stay in one state for more than a semester – but I think he wanted that too, you know? Just didn't think he deserved it. Or could ever have it." Sam rolls his head onto one side.

Hermione shifts in her seat, looks away to the bookcase then back at Sam.

"After Je -" Sam pauses. "After Stanford," he rephrases. "I met one of his old girlfriends. It was on a hunt, she'd called Dean about it."

Hermione bites her lip, shifts again and Sam smiles feeling pleased.

"She was a journalist on a local paper. Intelligent just like Dean likes. Spoke her mind too, idealistic – you know?"

Hermione's cheeks flush, and she drops her head. "Where are you going with this, Sam?" she asks, finally interrupting him. "Are you trying to make me jealous? Trying to gauge how serious me and Dean were? How serious I was about him? You could just ask."

"He just never fit with them," Sam says after a few moments silence. "It was hard to see him with any of those girls – long term. Even Cassie. They never got it. Couldn't. Your – I can see the similarities; smart, studious, respectable with an edge." He chuckles. "I think you're probably pretty moralistic too - taking me in like this, right? Yeah. Kind hearted. Respectable."

Hermione moves to speak, she looks more uncomfortable than he's ever seen her, even when he'd asked her about the drugged coffee. Sam jumps in first, doesn't give her a chance.

"You're quieter though, I think. You seem more closed off. Dean always went for these outgoing girls, the popular girls who seemed surrounded by everyone - everything we've never really had."

Hermione's hands clench and flex and it feels something like a victory.

"You've only been here a day," she says, voice prissy and lips a thin line.

"I think I'm a fairly good judge of character," Sam retorts. "Kind of have to be, you know?"

Hermione takes a slow breath in, lets it out and Sam's sure she's got her tongue between her teeth and is biting down on the muscle. When she looks up and meets his eyes there's a tilt back to the edges of her mouth.

"It's easier to recognise in others what we see in ourselves," she says, and stands up. "I'll go make the spare room up. Give you some space of your own."

Sam narrows his eyes. For some reason he thinks she just won, and he's not sure how when he'd got her so rattled. He's not even sure why.

"Sam," Hermione says, turning in the doorway, "I meant what I said; if you have questions I'd prefer you just asked me directly."


	5. Chapter 4

Hermione cups her hand, holds it outstretched with the owl treat in her palm. Darcy looks down at it dubiously and shuffles his feet on the windowsill, ruffling his feathers.

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione huffs. She drops the treat onto the ledge, turns and strides into the kitchen. "You are the most stubborn, stuck up -" She lifts the lid of the bin, peers inside and starts rooting through the rubbish. "- demanding bird I have ever - Ah-ha! There you are." Hermione pushes one of her hands inside the bin, pulls out the corpse of the poor mouse unfortunate enough to cross Crookshank's path the night before.

She puts the lid back on and walks back into the living room.

The owl cocks his head to one side, turning it to look back inside the room and at Hermione. One of his talons catches the discarded treat and knocks it off the sill. Hermione's almost sure it's not an accident.

"There," she grunts, dangling the mouse before the bird. "Happy now?"

Darcy plucks it from her fingers and starts tearing into it, pinning the corpse beneath his feet for extra leverage.

Hermione grimaces and turns her head slightly to one side, averting her gaze.

She picks up the small scroll she'd written to Blaise earlier; rolling the parchment between her palms while she waits for the owl to finish. She taps her foot against the floor and tries not to talk herself out of postponing the meeting. It's her own hang ups that are causing her the dilemma. Two more weeks will make no difference to Blaise. He'd offered her longer originally anyway, said that it was a complex project and she should take her time, maybe take a holiday.

She would have met the deadline any other time.

She just hasn't been able to concentrate like she usually would and it's set her back. After seven years on her own she's just grown too out of practice at working with the distraction of company.

She doesn't think it would be much easier if she was used to it, because Sam's just – He's a ball of mood swings, restless energy and angst that rolls off him filling up the entire house. It makes her think too much of what it must have been like to be around Harry and her after Ron's diagnosis. It just plain makes her think too much.

It's an uncomfortable, prickling reminder and her mistakes stand out so much clearer now she's seeing them in everything Sam does; in the way that Dean permeates everything for him.

Hermione rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. She closes her eyes and knocks her head back against the window frame.

She wonders how much of the two months before Sam turned up were spent looking for a way to get Dean back; how far he considered going – how far he went and thinks about own single-minded determination.

Ginny had been the first one to get frustrated with her; the first to try and pull her out of her obsessive research and try to get her to face up.

"This is enough, you're coming back to the Burrow. I don't care if you don't want to. You're not being rational, Hermione. When did you last even eat? Charlie, I need -"

Hermione had been too focussed to listen; there'd just been so much to read before she could even start to think about taking it any further.

When Dean had visited before he – She tightens her grip on the paper, bites her lips and blinks hard. It had been so easy to hear Ginny's words in Dean's voice when he'd spoken of Sam. She keeps thinking of that now.

"He won't give up. He just – won't. And I don't know how to get him to –"

She'd tried to be sympathetic; tried not to let the hurt out, knew it would be angry if she did. She'd put her hand on the small of his back and rubbed small soothing circles against his skin. She'd kissed his neck and shoulders, wrapped an arm around his waist and let her tears run silent down the nape of his neck, ignored the hollow pit opening up in her stomach.

All she'd really felt was a desperate kind of hope that Sam would find something.

Sometimes, Hermione thinks that the most distracting thing about having Sam here is the way he's a constant reminder that he never did.

She'll be sitting at her desk, and one look at Sam takes her back to the doorstep of the Burrow with Molly Weasley standing in the doorway, pulling Hermione into a hug and muttering something about losing all of them at this rate.

She remembers the feel of Molly's jumper against her face and saying, "I'm sorry. I have so much to do. I haven't found a cure yet. I will though. I promise."

She keeps thinking about how they both failed and that she feels a hypocrite every time she judges Sam; feels sure if he knew he'd have no problem calling her on that fact too.

She glances back at Darcy, sees him preening his feathers, all trace of the mouse gone. She looks down from him to parchment; it's crumpled and torn slightly in the middle where her hand has crushed and twisted it.

Hermione tuts at herself, looks back at the bird and says, "I know full well I can't send it to him like this, no need for you to glare at me like that."

She pulls her wand from the back pocket of her jeans; has to lift the hem of her jumper up to withdraw it. It's a reflex to just mutter a quick Reparo before holding it out for the owl to take. She doesn't really think about it, instead she lets her mind drift to thoughts of standing on her doorstep; kissing Dean goodbye. She wonders where Sam buried him, and considers the fact she's never asked.

"What are you?" Sam asks, his voice brittle and hard.

"Pardon?" Hermione swallows reflexively, glances around the room, on edge from Sam's sudden appearance and change in mood. She didn't hear him. She's out of practice. Her lips thin for a moment at the thought - chastising herself - then relax.

"I thought we were getting past this?" she asks, forcing her voice soft. Two steps forward, three steps back, she thinks.

Sam doesn't blink, doesn't answer, just says, "You said you weren't a hunter."

Hermione nods cautiously, feels the affirmative's needed even though Sam's tone clearly wasn't questioning that fact. She has the feeling she's walking straight into some kind of trap and she's not entirely sure that there's a way to avoid it. She thinks whatever she says Sam will find a way to twist it back.

"Then what the fuck are you 'cause you sure as hell aren't just a translator."

Hermione opens her mouth, but Sam's striding towards her.

She hesitates, but only for a second. She reaches back behind her, fists the length of her wand in her back pocket. She's not that out of practice. She's been on hunts with Dean – just one or two while Sam was still at uni. She even sparred with Blaise last time he visited at his insistence that he needed a challenge. Blaise would never be so crass as to suggest to her that she was the one who needed it.

With Blaise though, not Harry.

They never – Never anything like that with Harry. Not now. They stay away from anything remotely resembling just how quick they had to grow up and learn to defend themselves.

Sam stops, smirks all self satisfied and smug, and looks towards where her hand is coiled. "What," he repeats slowly, "are you?"

Hermione thins her lips and wants to bang her head against something hard and dull. She can't believe she got caught. Everything else – her books, the herbs, some of the small bizarre artefacts she's picked up over the years – could be passed off as an interest in the supernatural, but for this. It's why she's been careful not to use any real magic outside of shut doors she was pretty sure Sam wouldn't cross without knocking.

It was dumb.

Hermione sighs, loosens her grip just slightly, but doesn't let go. Sam's not stable, condescending though that sounds. Hermione knows how well trained Dean was, knows enough to guess Sam's just as competent if not possibly more so because Sam's – different. 'Special,' Dean had said.

She eyes him warily and doesn't respond straight off. She considers offering tea, taking this discussion into the kitchen, but she's pretty sure that would only wind Sam tighter right now. One moment he's all calm consideration, noting down facts and listening carefully, the next he's hot headed and impulsive like every argument she'd ever had with – Ron.

"I'm a witch," she says softly, meeting Sam's eyes and holding firm. She forces her hand to pull fully off her wand, lessen any threat she might appear as. There's a temptation to cross her arms, bury her hands into the wool of her cardigan. She thinks the gesture might appear too defensive. She thinks Sam's just about smart enough to pay attention to small little tells like that; would have to be after being around Dean for so many years. So instead, she clenches her hands once, drops them to her side and forces them loose.

Sam narrows his eyes, looks back down toward where her wand is still sticking out her back pocket. "You're -" Sam hesitates, holds in the accusation Hermione thinks was about to come. The one she expects. His brow's drawn down in heavy frown lines and he's just staring, eyes flickering like he's speed reading a book.

"Dean didn't believe me either," Hermione says and smiles small and gentle. "Not sure you have the same reasoning or motivation as your brother though."

"I've met witches," Sam says, his face is twisted and he looks away from her. "They don't – I've never seen their magic work like that. You're different."

"I – You've met -" Hermione flounders, hates the feeling that she doesn't quite have all the information she should. "How do you think it works then?" she asks at last and does cross her arms this time.

Sam snorts, it's a harsh, derisive sound that has echoes of Snape every time one of her housemates answered a question of his wrongly. It makes Sam seem suddenly far uglier than he is. It's something that none of his previous anger has managed.

He looks back at her, drops his eyes down then snaps them up. "It works by temptation," he says coldly and steps forward, moving until he's in Hermione's space, looking down at her.

She tilts her head to the side and up, cocks an eyebrow and refuses to be intimidated.

"Tell me," he sneers, "did you give your soul up knowingly or were you tricked? Is that why Dean came to you?"

Hermione frowns. "My soul?" She shakes her head. "Why would you think - I was born a witch. I wasn't tempted or tricked. You can't – You have to be born with magical aptitude, you can't -" Hermione's voice fades.

"You can," Sam says coldly. "I've met them. So dumb they didn't even realise they were being manipulated."

Sam looks at Hermione and she hears the unspoken accusation loud and clear, feels her skin bristle with offense at Sam's implication.

"I wasn't manipulated," she says, slow and sure.

Hermione steps past Sam to the bookcase behind him, reaches for a book and slides it out, her finger catches on the spine of the one behind and she tips it back on one end so she can pull it forward easily. "Here," Hermione says and holds the book out to Sam, mouth tense, she bites down on her tongue and forces herself not to rise to the way he's looking at her; pity and contempt twisting up his face. "This explains some of what you're asking." It's a rudimentary history text, one she'd picked up before she started Hogwarts, something to help her eleven-year-old self understand a little more of what she was being told she was part of. "You can ask me questions after if you like. But I'm not what you think. I didn't know that was – Demons can do anything, Sam. Look at you. But my best guess is that it all has to come from somewhere."

Hermione clenches her fist and thinks of all the propaganda about Muggle-borns and Squibs that Voldemort touted during that last year.

Sam snorts, but he takes the book anyway. He turns toward the front door and Hermione doesn't argue, try to stop him or explain further as he turns the handle and pulls it open. She knows this isn't something she can force.

He pauses on the threshold.

"Dean knew?" he asks.

Hermione nods, realises he's not looking and says, "Yes. Not from the start, but for long enough. It was - he understood."

"We met a coven of witches a few months before -" Sam hesitates, backtracks and says, "A few months back," instead of the obvious. "All twisted up in temptation from this demon. They had no fucking idea. Did Dean tell you about them? When he came?"

"No," she answers honestly. Her throat feels tight and she knows the path Sam's leading her down.

"Huh," he says, and it doesn't sound curious at all, but satisfied like a bully finding the exact taunt to make you break, punch back or just cry. "Wonder why."

Sam doesn't come back until the evening. Hermione would be worried he left for good, but every time she looks out the window the Impala's still sat at the end of the drive in the same place it's been for the past week and a half, since Sam turned up.

When he does come back, he's drunk.

It's well past dusk and Hermione had locked the front door an hour earlier, choosing to wait by the window reading instead.

Sam rounds the Impala, leans heavy against the boot for a moment. He's still there when Hermione opens the front door and looks out.

He has one hand spread on the curve of metal, arm taut holding him up. His other hand's in his pocket like he's looking for something. It comes back a moment later with a set of keys.

They clink too loudly in the quiet of the evening and Sam's fingers fumble the small key ring, trying to find the Impala's.

"Sam," Hermione calls out, her voice heavy with a sigh.

Sam glances up, glares at her with slanted fox eyes and it suddenly feels like they've slipped ten days back in time.

"Sam," Hermione repeats, stepping out onto the porch.

"'m gonna sleep in the car," Sam slurs, thumbing a key between his fingers with satisfaction and sliding around the car, his weight half slumped against its side.

Hermione huffs out an irritated breath and takes another three steps forward, her arms wrapping around her middle in the chill of the night air.

"Sam, don't be stupid. It's too cold. You must be half frozen already."

Sam's head rolls on his shoulders, sliding to one side as he regards her. "'m fine. Fucking awesome."

Hermione grunts, mumbles, "Stubborn idiots," under her breath and steps down off the porch. When she reaches Sam he's got a key in the Impala's door and his bag's abandoned on the ground so he can balance easier.

Hermione reaches up, turns his head to her with one hand stretched up and grasping his chin. His eyes are ringed so red they look almost bruised and his arms are prickled with goose bumps.

"Merlin, will you just come inside. Please," she says.

Sam slumps against the car, wipes at his nose with his forearm.

"I read your book. 's in my bag."

His breath smells of whiskey and there's a smear of dirt on his cheek. Hermione licks her thumb, rubs the pad over the tarnished skin, miring the lines tears have tracked through it.

"How can you be sure," Sam asks.

Hermione snorts. "I know what evil looks like," she replies. She slides her hand down to Sam's shoulder, squeezes once and drops down further to catch his hand that's still holding the key in the car's lock. "So do you. Do you really think I'm evil, Sam?"

"I think," he says slowly, considering, his vowels drawn out and slow. "I think you're kind of a know it all."

Hermione smiles, but she doesn't feel it. Her eyes feel damp and she can hear the echo of another voice in her head. "So, I've been told."

Sam lets Hermione lead him inside. He lets her push him down into one of the kitchen chairs, wrap a blanket around his shoulders and smooth a warm wet wash cloth across his face.

He feels like he did when he was thirteen and John had dragged him and Dean along on a hunt for a Chupacabra in San Antonio. "It'll be good practice. Nice and easy." They hadn't known when they'd headed out to track and kill the thing, that they were hunting a mother and her brood. They would have been more cautious if they had.

John had just killed the first of her offspring when the mother had gotten the drop on Sam, knocking him to the ground from behind. He'd caught his temple on a rock in the process. When he'd come round a few minutes later there was a heavy weight on his back and a sharp pain in his neck.

Sam had looked up to see Dean a few feet off, hand's steady on his gun as he took aim and fired.

Later, Sam remembers Dean helping him back into their motel; woozy from blood loss and unsteady on his feet. Dean's arm was a warm, solid weight around Sam's waist, holding him up, talking nonsense to keep him conscious while their dad was still back at the nest watching the bodies burn.

Dean had pushed Sam down into a chair. He'd come back a few minutes later with a washcloth and a few bars of chocolate. His hand had shook as he lifted Sam's chin to clean the wound, pressing cool white cotton against Sam's skin and murmuring a litany of curse words intertwined with Sam's name under his breath.

Sam had just felt weak, too tired to sit up, too tired to answer Dean's questions. He thought they were mostly rhetorical anyway. His eyes were heavy and it had been so easy to fall forward, rest his forehead against Dean's shoulder and breathe in his brother's familiar smell.

Dean's breath had stuttered out, his hand shaking as it spread palm flat across Sam's back pulling him close. "Fuck Sammy. Scared the shit out of me."

Sam watches Hermione's face as she finishes up with the cloth, dropping it in a bowl and lifting a glass of water from the table. She washes her hands in the sink then moves back in front of him.

"Here," she says, pushing a cold glass of water into one of his hands, holding his fingers on the tumbler.

"I don't need looking after," Sam says.

Hermione's tongue pokes out through her teeth, licks her lip once and then she's biting down on flesh, pulling it into her mouth and worrying it until Sam's sure he sees a crack. "Sometimes it's okay," she replies.

Sam lifts his free hand up to her face, almost cups her cheek, but settles the pad of his thumb on her lower lip instead. He drags it down, pulls it out from between her teeth and watches it spring back. He can feel the callous' on his skin from too many hours spent training with guns and knives; breaking them down, building them up, learning to hit a target on demand. He can feel the ridge Hermione's teeth have scarred into her flesh.

"You do this for Dean? Clean him up after a hunt?" he asks and superimposes Hermione into the memory of a dozen random girls he's seen his brother kissing over the years, hears Dean laugh, low and genuine and Sam leans forward.

He pulls her close, lets his legs fall open and tugs Hermione into him with on hand on her hip. Her eyes are still open when closes his, and he thinks about whether he'd be able to taste Dean if he bit into that ridge, tore it open.

"Sam," Hermione breathes against his lips; into his mouth. Her back's stiff, but there's no resistance when he tugs her those last few inches, when he opens his mouth against hers and tries to get her to kiss back.

She doesn't. She keeps her mouth closed and lets Sam take everything except what he wants. She lets him suck on her bottom lip, stroke his tongue along it and Sam feels like he's begging for something he's never going to get.

He growls in frustration and pulls her in too hard, tangles his hand in her hair and presses them closer too quick, causes her nose to bump his.

Hands settle on his shoulders, and Sam bites down on her lip, pushes forward again. It feels important and he thinks of Dean in a motel wanting Sam to come with him, saying they'd get along.

"Please," Sam says. "Sorry," and he knows it's not an apology for wanting more than Hermione's given; that he's not apologising to Hermione at all.

Hermione's hands lift and resettle, rubbing slow circles from his shoulder to his neck, her fingers finding and digging into pressure points there. She kisses back, back loosening and lips brushing Sam's. She keeps it slow, forces Sam gentler, her mouth closed and chaste. The kiss is soft and all too regretful like her voice when she said his name.

The pleasant numbness that had settled over him with the first few mouthfuls of whiskey seems long gone. Sam thinks he might be crying, but he can't feel the familiar tightness in his chest that he associates with it or the prickle behind his eyes, just a wetness on his cheeks and a distant hiccupping that he doesn't think is coming from Hermione.

Hermione's fingers dig slightly harder into flesh and she pushes back from him with just enough force. Sam catches the look on her face and has to look away, can't stand the truth he sees there.

"I'm not a way to Dean," she says, her voice firm, but sad. "That's not something I can give you."

"I promised him I'd save him," Sam says back. "And I couldn't. I tried to make a deal -"

Hermione sucks in a breath and Sam feels her hands flex even through the blanket.

" - but no one came. It was the only thing he ever needed from me and I couldn't -"

"Shh," Hermione coos. "Sam, Dean knew, okay? He knew. All he ever wanted was for you to live, Sam. He just wanted you to be happy. Safe and happy."

"But he's not here."

"I know," Hermione replies and her voice sounds full of the tears Sam can't feel. "But you're not the only one who's upset at being left behind. You're not the only one who's tried to do something and failed. At some point, you just have to accept that we are all limited."

"I can't just move on. You can't expect me to just -"

"I don't. Dean didn't either, but he wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

"Sometimes, I wake up and I can't picture his face."

Sam feels Hermione's hand on his cheek before he registers she's moved it. "I know. Sometimes, we can try too hard. It's okay, Sam. It's really okay. Come on. Drink the water and we'll get you to bed."

Sam looks up at her and see's the glisten of tears on Hermione's cheeks too. "Did you love him?" he asks and doesn't know why he hasn't asked it before, why it didn't occur to him that she might.

Hermione bites her lip and Sam finds himself smiling at the now familiar tell.

"Yes," Hermione answers. She seems surprised by the answer and her voice breaks over the simple affirmative.

Sam's not sure if the way her eyes widen as she gives the answer comes from the realisation or just the fact she's telling Sam. He doesn't care, just feels something in his chest give like a knot snapping undone.

He wants to say good, to smile and say he's glad, but instead he takes a long sip of the water, asks Hermione if it's okay if he has a bath first.

Hermione's pen scratches against paper, quick fast strokes that seem to barely lift or pause. A page turns and there's the noise of parchment dragging against parchment.

Sam watches the fire flickering in the grate, tries not to think too much about the flames. He taps his fingers against his knee. When he stops to listen, he realises he's drumming out the opening cords to Pink Floyd's Wish you Were Here. He scowls, flips to The Shins and Caring is Creepy with a frustrated huff.

Three pages turn and there's a heavy, dull clunk of a book being put down.

When he looks down at his hands again they're back to Floyd. Sam remembers sitting in a bar off campus during his first week at Stanford, the familiar chords filling up the air like a dull roar making his beer hard to swallow.

He stills his hands from the rhythm and turns on the sofa to watch Hermione. He leans back against the cushions, openly stares.

Hermione doesn't blink or raise her head. She just keeps scanning back and forth between the texts and the scrolls she has open making notes.

Her hair's wild and frizzier than it has been since he arrived. She keeps pushing her hands up into it, pulling and scratching at her scalp whenever she seems to hit a part that challenges her. She bites her lip when she thinks, chews the end of her pen when she's reading. Her walls are lined with books and there's something in the way she stands; the way she looks at Sam that makes him think hunter even though he knows that she's not.

Sam sits up before he really thinks about doing it, asks with an instinct and forethought that's all his brother, "He said we were alike?"

Hermione doesn't respond right away. Sam's getting used to the fact that it's hard to talk to her when she's working. She gives it all her concentration.

Sam gets it. The similarities are clear, but he wants to know. He wants to fucking hear what Dean picked out – what he saw. He wants to know why.

Hermione looks up, licks her bottom lip and gives him a soft smile. It's not intended to be as suggestive as it comes off, Sam's sure.

She puts her pen down before she responds. "He thought -" Hermione laughs. "He thought we'd bond over our mutual geekiness - our love of books and studying. He thought we'd break his brain with all our sharing, caring and talking things out. He thought if we ever met I'd see the error of my ways and run off with his 'smarter, if less attractive - Dean's words I promise - younger brother and seduce you over an old Latin tome."

Sam laughs and Hermione seems to smile wider – more genuine. "I think he just thought we'd get along. That we had similar attitudes to things."

Hermione pauses there, frowns slightly and Sam's sure there's something more. She just shakes her head though, smiles again and Sam lets himself forget the possibility of anything else.

"What are you working on?" he asks.


	6. Chapter 5

They settle into a routine.

Sam's moods shift between closed off neutrality to frustration. He moves between periods of questioning everything to hardly speaking at all; pacing the room whilst Hermione works or shutting himself up in the spare bedroom and doing Merlin only knows what.

It's an uneasy peace, and reminds Hermione too much of returning to Grimmauld Place with Harry for the first time after the battle, intent on no longer being a burden on the Weasley's until she could find a cure.

Her skin feels the same kind of itchy as it did then.

Sam pushes and digs and sometimes it's so much like being around Harry in those first few months that Hermione's not sure why she felt such a need for Sam to stay. Why she still feels it. But then a letter comes from Harry, saying he might be able to get some time off work and maybe drop by the next month with Teddy and Hermione remembers. She remembers sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, her bags in the hallway and Andromeda somewhere downstairs with her grandson.

"You don't have to leave," Harry had said, failing to keep the dejection out of his voice as he watched Hermione pack her final case from his seat on the edge of her bed.

"I can't stay." Hermione had felt her voice break as she said it and she hadn't dared look up for fear she'd catch Harry's eye, knew for sure she'd fold if she did.

"I didn't mean it." Harry's hand had touched her elbow, trying to get her to turn around.

Hermione had felt her breath hitch in her chest, felt tears prickle her eyes and had shrugged him off, stepped away to retrieve a book. "I know. We've been through this. I'm not going because of that, I just -"

"Have to, I know, you said that already. You keep saying that, but I don't -"

"They have more progressive research in this field over there. It's not forever, just - It's my best chance to find a cure, Harry. Don't you -"

Hermione had risked a glance at Harry, his face was dark, closed down and his mouth twisted up into an ugly line. Hermione had winced.

"You really believe that, don't you?" he'd asked, voice full of scorn, but genuinely curious.

"You know I do. You have to see that -"

"Shut up. I see plenty, Hermione. I'm not quite as damaged as you all seem to think I am and I'm perfectly aware of what you're doing here."

Hermione had watched him walk towards the door, he'd had his hand on the frame ready to step out. Hermione had wrapped a hand around her throat, hadn't been sure she could breathe.

"You know what? You think this is what you need, fine. Go. Just -" He'd paused, turned all too knowing eyes back on her and said, "I'm not the only one who's broken. Just admit that this isn't all about better research."

Hermione doesn't send Harry's owl back straight away, but when she does she starts it with 'Sorry' and at the end she smudges her name with a tear wet thumb.

Sometimes they talk - Sam and her.

One afternoon, Sam picks up an old, well thumbed copy of The Hobbit from one of the shelves, starts reading through it whilst Hermione works. She looks up and catches him, carries on for a moment before the need to speak grows too strong.

"It was my granddad's," Hermione says, she rests her chin on her palm, her elbow digging into the wood of the desk.

Sam's got his tongue poking out between his teeth, concentration fully focussed on the book and it takes a moment for him to respond. Hermione watches him lick the pad of his thumb, pull the corner of the page until it lifts and flips over. "Huh?" he says finally, looking up at her.

"The book," she clarifies, "it belonged to my Granddad. He used to read it to me when I stayed over at his."

Sam nods, looks down at the open page for a moment, his face pensive. "We didn't -" he starts to say, but Hermione cuts him off, doesn't make him say it.

"I know."

"Did you read the rest? The other books?" Sam asks, placing the copy open and face down on his belly. He bites onto the nail of his thumb and watches something just behind Hermione's shoulder with absent disinterest.

Hermione shakes her head and drops her gaze. She chews on the rubber on the end of her pencil, feels it crack and break in her mouth leaving a graining aftertaste along the tip of her tongue and teeth. "He died. I never – they never appealed to me after. I tried, but it was too -" Too real, she thinks; Too close. "I couldn't get into it. It just felt – It wasn't escapism."

Sam nods and Hermione thinks he heard her reasoning even though she hadn't been able to voice it. "I had to read The Count of Monte Cristo for a class I took at Stanford," Sam says, voice low and distant. He sounds bitter and sad all at once when he adds, "I felt the same."

The next day, Hermione slides The Picture of Dorian Grey across her desk when Sam comes in and sits down.

"Where I went to school, it was amazing. All the pictures moved and could talk and interact with us. I'd read about it before I went, but it never really prepared me, not having grown up with that." Hermione hesitates, hears her voice hitch and says honestly, "Looking back now, I don't think it ever could."

Sam doesn't interrupt; he just stretches an arm across the bad of the settee and pulls the book closer, looks up with obvious curiosity.

"I read this one summer and when I got back to school, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I stayed up studying most of the first week back much to the consternation of Harry and Ron. I was too embarrassed to admit it was because I couldn't sleep."

After that they swap stories – all the books they've read that have creeped them out for whatever reason. It's like swapping ghost stories, Hermione thinks except more personal and she shivers when Sam looks up from his coffee one evening and says, "The Black Cat, Edgar Allan Poe."

"Poe in general," Hermione replies, she cuts her eyes away, looks back with a shy half smile. "Hansel and Gretel. I know it's just a fairytale, but everything about it just horrified me as a child."

Sam nods slowly. "It's always the things designed to entertain children, isn't it?" He pauses and Hermione's not sure he's going to continue. It feels like the mood's broken and Sam seems suddenly more serious, but then he looks up, smiles. "I always hated clowns. Dean thought it was hilarious. But we went on this hunt once, for a Rakshasa that was disguising itself as a clown to lure in its victims – totally made me feel justified."

Hermione laughs and can almost imagine their conversation.

"I hated flying. First year at school we had flying lessons on the school brooms."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Brooms?"

"I know, clichéd, right? That's what I thought, but they're not really like the brooms you get in the folk lore. Anyway, it was the only class I hated. Well, I didn't like Divination much either, but that's because the Professor was a terrible teacher. Honestly, she was so self absorbed and dramatic. I don't think she taught anyone anything other than how to be a fake."

Hermione rolls her eyes and Sam grins.

"Flying, eh? You know Dean was more than a little scared of that himself. We went on this one hunt where..."

Sam launches into a story about a possessed pilot and Hermione just pulls her feet up, tucks them under her on the settee and listens.

Hermione's owl comes back after a week with a note from Blaise to confirm the postponement of their meeting and the change of location.

She realizes with some shock that she's nowhere near as far along with it as she should be even with the extension and she's glad she asked Blaise for another two weeks instead of just the one she'd been tempted to.

The problem's not just that she's been distracted, though she's suddenly sure she's latched on to that as a form of procrastination. She realises with her head bent over the books on her desk, Blaise's letter in one hand, that the problem is that she's stuck.

Hermione looks over her notes and is a little furious at herself for not pushing harder to find a solution. It's not something she does. She watched Harry and Ron and half on the rest of her house back at school put off assignments they found more than moderately difficult until the last minute, but it's not something Hermione's ever done herself.

"What's wrong?" Sam says. His hair's wet and Hermione feels it dripping on to her shoulder where he's standing over her before she hears his question.

"I can't – It doesn't make sense," she replies. "I just can't decide which is the right interpretation because none of them seem to add up."

"Show me your notes."

"You don't know the language, it's not –"

"Show me your translations."

Hermione twists and looks up over her shoulder. Sam's towelling at his hair, his t-shirt damp around the neck where the water's dripped down. He's close enough that Hermione could lean back in her chair and tip her head back to rest against his stomach.

"I was good at Math, maybe I'll be able to see something you can't," Sam says with a shrug and a half smile. "Sometimes you can look at something too hard."

Hermione forgets about the way she can smell water and soap and shampoo, and instead flushes; feels guilty for not looking harder because she could have put more work into this. Should have.

She pulls her notes apart, spreads them out over the desk and tries to organise them into some form of coherence. Behind her, she hears the scrape of wood on wood as Sam pulls a chair in from the kitchen and drags it up beside her.

Hermione starts to explain, the premise of the chapter and what she's translated so far. Sam listens carefully, one hand still rubbing at his hair until Hermione begins to go into more detail about the interpretations confusing her. He leans in, one arm spread along the back rest of her seat as he looks over her notes.

She turns her head and stares at the line of a small scar disappearing into Sam's hairline, the droplet of water caught on his cheekbone. She looks, not for the first time, for the similarities in bone structure to his brother, finds them in the set of his face as he concentrates and pulls one page of calculations closer.

Hermione licks her lips and smiles at the way Sam's tongue pokes out through his lips as he writes something.

"Try that," he says and Hermione looks away a moment too late.

Sam's smile falters then widens in the corner of her vision.

"I -" she says, looking down at the page, where Sam's shifted some of the figures around. It works! And Hermione's not sure how she didn't see it before.

Sam misjudges her quietness and starts to explain his reasoning, carefully pointing out parts of her notes and something he noticed in the text, still open at the back of the desk.

"I think I have a book you might like," Hermione says, voice soft.

Sam's lips tilt up to one side, curious. "Yeah?"

"It's a bit of a hobby," Hermione says. "I'll bring it down for you later."

"Thanks," Sam says back. His thumb brushes Hermione's shoulder and he pulls back, standing up. "I'm going to," he gestures to the hallway and the bathroom, towel hanging from one hand.

"Thanks," Hermione says, a sudden burst of sound as Sam walks away.

He smiles over his shoulder. "It's good. Glad I could help."

Hermione takes the corner booth, sits facing the door. She holds her cup in one hand, swirls it until the liquid begins to form a miniature whirlpool and stares into the abyss of her tea.

Sam had been at her desk when she'd left; books spread open and notes covering a sheaf of parchment as he worked on the book of Arithmancy puzzles she'd leant him; that he's hardly put it down.

He's quiet.

There have been fewer questions. Fewer everything except hunched shoulders and a creased brow as he cross references one page against another. All the anger Sam had turned up at her door with – it's not gone, but it's not there either. No immediate focus for it except numbers and symbols.

She's not sure if she should be so relieved that he's just swapped one crutch for another, but this one at least she finds easier to deal with.

It's an apathy Hermione can relate to.

She bites her lip.

It's easier than large hands on her waist and lips pressed against hers that she really should not still be thinking about.

Hermione puts her cup down. It clinks loudly against the Formica table top and the tea inside sloshes to the right with the sharp movement, spilling over the side.

"Great." Hermione frowns and reaches over to claim one of the napkins to clean up the mess.

The bell on the door rings as the tea's staining the paper brown. Hermione scrunches the napkin up, pushes it to one side and looks up at the newcomer. She grins at the grimace of distaste on the man's face, stifling a laugh as he looks in her direction.

He narrows his eyes and Hermione lets the laugh go as he turns to head in her direction.

"You have got to be kidding me, Granger."

Zabini's looking around with distain, his gaze pausing in horror at the occupant of the next table who engaging in a very exuberant conversation whilst digesting what looks to be half a pig.

"Are you planning on sitting down?" she asks, still smiling. Sometimes she finds herself a little surprised at the fact that she looks forward to conversations with an ex-Slytherin so much.

Blaise looks at the seat, clears his throat and looks back at Hermione. "I was actually hoping you were going to admit to some kind of perverse sense of humour I was previously unaware of."

"Sorry," Hermione says, voice full of mock seriousness. "If it's any consolation, I can promise you the coffee will make up for any lowering of standards this requires on your part."

Blaise mumbles something that sounds like, 'I doubt it,' but he starts to slide his coat from his shoulders, folding it carefully over one arm before reluctantly taking a seat.

Hermione waives the waitress over, orders Blaise a pot of coffee and herself another Earl Grey.

"Just trust me," Hermione says, pushing the cup across the table.

There's a strange sort of pleasure in watching him lift the cup tentatively to his mouth like it might be poisoned or contain off milk.

Hermione can't contain her laugh. She doesn't want to. It feels good to let it out and Hermione's relieved by the chance of reprieve from the atmosphere in the house where she too often still feels slightly guilty for every smile or laugh.

Blaise narrows his eyes and sniffs at the coffee. "So glad I could prove a source of amusement to you," he snarks.

Hermione smiles. "Sorry, it's just you look so stiff."

Blaise cocks an eyebrow at her. "I just want to be sure you're not trying to trick me into consuming substandard coffee."

Hermione presses a hand to her chest, mock affronted. "Like I'd ever do such a thing."

Blaise takes a small sip and looks up at her in mild surprise. Hermione grins as he takes a longer sip before putting the cup down.

"Not bad, Granger. It'll do."

"So glad it meets your approval," Hermione jokes back.

"Acceptable though your peace offering is, can I inquire as to why there was a necessity for a change in location?" Blaise asks, leaning back in his chair.

Hermione looks down at the tabletop, picks up her tea cup and swirls it again. "I have a houseguest," she answers, knows even before she looks up that Blaise is going to look like the cat that's got the cream.

"I thought you liked your solitude? That's why you ran away here, right? Why you left all your friends back in Britain."

It hits as hard as Hermione knows Blaise intended it to. They've had this argument before, Blaise just keeps pushing her on it. She looks up at him, cheeks hot. "I didn't run away," she argues. What she wants to say is that she didn't leave anyone behind.

Blaise doesn't bite, he lets it drop. When he finally speaks he says, "Anyone I know?"

"It's not like that," Hermione replies, knows she was too quick.

"No?"

"No," she replies. "To both questions." She feels lips against hers, angry almond eyes flashing as Sam had pulled back.

"Hmm, I see."

It's a natural impulse to want to argue that point with Blaise. With anyone else Hermione would. Blaise though is different; he looks closer and pays more attention to words - even Hermione's. It's a natural fear, she assures herself, that he'll find something in them that Hermione's not willing or ready to face.

"How's Draco?" she says instead.

Blaise raises an eyebrow, lowers it only when Hermione flushes in acknowledgement of the obvious avoidance.

He sips his coffee and Hermione watches, reads more into it than she's sure Blaise wishes she could.

He shakes his head, a barely there movement, but enough for Hermione to read the warning.

The first time Hermione really talked to Blaise was during the trials that followed the war, or more specifically, during Lucius'. They'd both been waiting outside Courtroom Ten during a recess, the majority of the rest of the trial's occupants retiring to the canteen.

Hermione hadn't felt hungry, the rehashing of the events of the war making her stomach flop too uneasily to bear the various food smells there. Instead, she'd waved Ginny on ahead and sat down on one of the benches in the corridor. Blaise had been leant against the wall opposite when she'd looked up, his foot twitching in a rare show of emotion. Even then when she'd hardly known him past their brief encounters at school it had stood out enough that the motion had made Hermione tilt her head and pause in consideration.

During recess on the second day of Lucius' trial, Blaise had nodded at her and said, "Granger."

During the third, he'd been absent, appearing after five minutes with a coffee and a cup of ginger tea which he offered her. By then Hermione had some idea of why he was there, knew for the first time too that not all of the students seeking refuge in the Room of Requirement were from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"He has a job," Blaise says. "At the Ministry."

Hermione's eyes widen and she smiles. "That's great news."

"It's more of an apprenticeship. Part time." Blaise ducks his head in avoidance, a tact he doesn't use often from what Hermione's observed of him, but it's more frequent when it comes to Draco, when it comes to the war too. "His medication – the potions only do so much as you know."

"It's still good, Blaise," Hermione says, voice soft.

"Yes. Of course," he replies, his back perfectly straight, posture unaffected as he sips from his drink.

Hermione hears the unspoken concern in his words none the less. Ron was not the only one to come away from Voldemort's last stand, damaged. And whilst Draco was not so terminally affected as Ron, the war had still left him with other, additional, hindrances on top of his illness like a society that was still not as accepting as it would like to believe itself.

"So -" Blaise says, pulling the carefully wrapped book Hermione had brought with her across the table and leafing through the translation lying on top. He looks up with a smirk, "- have you told Potter about your house guest yet?"

Hermione bites back a wince and scowls across at Blaise. "Why did I become friends with you again?"

Blaise's smirk widens and he arches an eyebrow. "My intelligence and wit, of course. Who else could provide you with such a challenge, Granger?"

"Oh right. Of course. How silly of me to forget."

When Hermione gets home, Sam's waiting for her and it's not as reassuring as she thought it would be.

He's turned the chair from her desk around; positioned it so that it's facing the door, so that the first thing Hermione sees is him.

His face is dark, eyebrows drawn down and mouth set in a thin, angry line.

Hermione turns around, shuts and locks the front door, heaving out a sigh. When she turns back, she simply puts her satchel down on the entrance table and says, "So, what's wrong?" and leans back against the table to wait for whatever's triggered Sam's mood.

Sam doesn't answer, but his eyes narrow into slits as he watches her.

Hermione rolls her eyes, taps her foot against the floorboards and counts to sixty, giving him ample opportunity to respond.

Sam stays quiet though and Hermione scoffs.

"You can either tell me what I've done to upset you or not, Sam. I'm just a witch. I'm not psychic and I refuse to play guessing games because you seem to like the power trip it gives you."

Sam cocks his head, like he's considering how far he can push her.

Hermione doesn't give him chance. "Fine," she says and straightens up, starting to pull the new tomes Blaise had given her from her bag.

She's just lifting the first one free when Sam says, "I was looking through some of your books."

Hermione frowns, confused and looks over her shoulder at Sam. "O-kay," she says slowly and tries to think of some reason why her library would have darkened Sam's mood so drastically. He hasn't been this antagonistic since he discovered she was a witch.

"The ones in your bedroom," Sam adds.

It's clear from his tone he's expecting Hermione to be having some kind of revelation right now, but she's really no closer to understanding than she was before. The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck prickle at the insinuation that she's being slow. "I think I'm missing something. Care to be a little clearer?"

Sam stands up. "I was having some problems understanding some of the Arithmancy theory and you said there was some more of your school text books were in your room."

Hermione nods, because she'd told Sam that, said he was free to take any of them and then her gaze slides down from his face to the book in his hands. Hermione reads the title without thought or intention and her heart sinks, understanding blossoming fast. 'Oh, bugger!' she thinks.

Sam's responding smirk is twisted and cruel. It's full of hate and betrayal as he says coldly, "You could have saved him."

Hermione hesitates and feels her stomach turn with guilt and shame. "No," she answers, dropping her head. Then more firmly she looks up, meets Sam's eyes and says "No," again, more firmly.

"You're lying."

Hermione steps forward, takes the chance of putting herself closer even though her wand feels too far away where it's tucked into the back of her jeans. She wonders whose reactions would be quicker; hers or Sam's and is pretty sure she's too out of practice to pose much of a threat right now.

"Did you read any of it, Sam? Did you read about the sacrifice that kind of magic takes? Did you read any of the other books in my room on Horcruxes, on the kind of magic it takes to split a soul?"

Sam's hesitation tells Hermione enough.

She reaches for the edge of the book. "No, you didn't, did you? Just read enough to know there are ways you can cheat death and tie yourself to the mortal plane. If you're prepared to take the steps needed, if you can take a life -"

Sam opens his mouth to argue and Hermione pre-empts him.

"- an innocent's life, Sam. And Dean would have had to take it, not you. You couldn't take that burden for him. That kind of magic comes with very strict stipulations. But even so, you have to be willing to split your soul in two as well, make yourself less than human. Make yourself less than most of the things you've fought. Even demons. Their souls are still whole, just twisted and tortured. You have no idea what that kind of magic does to someone."

"And you do?" Sam asks, but Hermione hears the unspoken 'how' that's laced with suspicious resentment.

"Yes. I do. Because I spent the best part of seven years of my life fighting what this magic creates."

That's not entirely true. Hermione knows that Voldemort was not solely a product of the magic Tom Riddle used, but it's close enough.

"Fighting one person that this created. One person - one thing that tore apart an entire society for decades. You'd risk turning Dean into that?"

Sam lets go of the book. "I just – I saw it and thought."

Hermione nods, but can't quite meet his eyes when she says, "I know. But I wasn't lying when I said there isn't any magic that could have saved Dean. I – loved Dean. I wish there was, but this was and will never be an option."

Sam nods, his mood deflating into something far more dejected, and Hermione feels bad for a whole different reason.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Hermione touches her hand to his elbow. "Me too," she says softly, sincerely, and she really is. "I would have done something if I could."


	7. Chapter 6

Sam's been at the cabin six weeks when he pulls his phone out of the bottom of his duffle, plugs it into the charger and turns it on.

A message flashes up telling him he has voicemail, and when he dials the number to pick them up an automated voice informs him that his voicemail box is full.

Sam hangs up without listening to them, presses two on his speed dial and waits for Bobby to pick up.

"Sam?" Bobby asks, like he's almost sure it's anything but.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam replies, sinking down onto the edge of the bed, his fingers pulling at a loose thread on his jeans.

Bobby's quiet on the other end, Sam listens to the slow exhale of a breath and a distant clunk like something knocking against a wooden surface.

"Boy, I should -"

"I know," Sam interrupts.

"Where are you? I've left like a dozen messages -"

"I know."

"I tried looking for you, had a friend of mine try and pin point your location, she couldn't get a fix." Bobby sounds tired and Sam can picture him at his desk, running his hand over his face and looking through his books trying to find the smallest bit of information to help on a hunt. "I thought you'd – Fuck, Sam."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, knows it's nowhere near enough. "I'm staying with a friend of Dean's. I think she has the place is pretty heavily warded. That's why you couldn't -"

"A friend of Dean's?" Bobby asks.

"Uh, yeah. An old girlfriend," he says. Bobby coughs and Sam smiles. "I guess. I'm okay. I wanted to let you know, I'm doing okay. You don't need to worry."

Bobby swears, string of curse words surrounding a declaration that Sam's as good as his own blood and worrying goes hand in hand with that.

Sam smiles, lets Bobby try and chew him a new one, laughing low and winding Bobby up all the more for it. It feels good. For a moment, it's almost like what happened in New Harmony didn't go down at all.

There's a pause on the line, neither one of them speaking. Sam can hear a dog barking at Bobby's end of the line. "I thought you'd -" Bobby's voice sounds broken, wrecked and full of emotion like it hasn't been since Sam rang him from the hospital in Shiloh County, asking him for help, asking him if he could get the Impala. "Fuck, Sam."

Sam nods and doesn't say anything. He bites down on the truth and how close Bobby's fear came to being true. "Yeah," he says instead and promises to come see him, doesn't add soon because he's sure it won't be. He can't think of being at Bobby's and not seeing Dean there.

"Don't leave it so long," Bobby says and Sam promises he won't; hangs up.

He turns his phone back off, resisting the temptation to flick through the photos and the old messages he's got stored from Dean. He considers for a moment throwing it back inside his bag, but in the end just pulls the drawer of the bedside table open and sets it down inside.

When Sam enters the main room, Hermione's sitting on the couch with a laptop open and balanced on her knees. He pauses for a moment because he's surprised, too used to seeing her always at her desk with just books and scrolls spread around her; working the old fashioned way.

It's a bit like watching one of the period dramas Jess used to like on BBC America and seeing the heroine pull out a mobile phone.

Sam smiles, leans his back against the door frame and watches her fingers typing quickly, fast little click-clacks sounding too loud in the quiet of the cabin.

"Hey," he says, sitting down in one of the other armchairs. "Didn't know you knew how to use one of those things."

Hermione glances up, rolls her eyes and pushes her hair back out of her face. "I just prefer writing things out. I find it easier to organise my thoughts when I can make notes and cross things out. I guess it's a hangover from school."

Sam finds himself looking at her sometimes and unable to stop himself from imagining Dean touching her. What they would have looked like all tangled up and kissing, where Dean would have put his hands, if he'd have tangled them up in her hair and whether Hermione would have broken the kiss with her sharp tongue. He thinks about kissing her in the kitchen that night, the memory indistinct and blurred by alcohol, the way she'd kept it gentle and tries to imagine her letting go, if she did that with Dean.

"She's kind of a wildcat."

"So, what you doing?" he asks and wonders if he'd come here with Dean - when his brother had asked him to – how Dean would have introduced them.

"Emailing my parents," Hermione answers.

Sam thinks he should have guessed from the way her lip is cracked open and sore.

Hermione's head ducks back down and her fingers move across the keyboard again. Sam stays quiet, he watches as her hair falls back over her eyes and has this vision of her on her knees in front of Dean; coy smile and her curls wrapped up and tangled around Dean's hand as he strokes his dick with it.

He coughs and looks away.

The room feels suddenly too warm. Sam stands up, crosses to the fireplace and reaches into a bowl on the mantle for one of the hair bands Hermione keeps there. He drops it in her lap as he steps past her to his seat, burgundy circle of elastic hemming in the G and H keys.

"Thanks," Hermione says, small smile stretching skin and causing a bead of blood to break for the surface of her lip. Sam watches as she stretches her arms up behind her head, gathering up her hair and wraping the band around it, her tongue darting out and swallowing up the red drop.

"Why'd you leave?" Sam says suddenly, thinking of seven years earlier, sitting in a bus station, duffle on the floor, Dean by his side and a ticket to Palo Alto in his hand - how hard it had been to walk away.

Hermione's head cocks to the side like it so often does when she seems caught or guard and doesn't have a response ready and waiting.

"I -" she flounders, mouth working. Her lips set into a firm line a moment latter and she closes the laptop, slides it onto the seat beside her.

"My friend got hurt," she says and her voice sounds thick like it doesn't want to come.

Sam nods slowly, trying to process how he's supposed to interpret that. Hermione hasn't talked much about friends. She's only gone into town that once to meet someone and that was business. She's talked about family and people from her childhood, but mostly there's just them, and Dean. Just the present and recent past, just books and work.

"Our childhood was kind of different. It's hard to explain, but there was a war on. In our community," she clarifies when Sam cocks his head. "That's not true. It wasn't just our community, but everyone else just didn't know. Couldn't because of the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy. Honestly, I'd probably be in trouble for telling you and Dean as much as I have if anyone official found out."

Sam nods, knows as much from the book she'd leant him.

"Anyway," Hermione continues. "We were pretty involved in what was going on," Hermione continues. Her hands are in her lap and she's tugging a ring on an off her index finger, watching it and not Sam as she spins it up and back down.

"How old?" Sam asks, because she said childhood.

"Pretty much day one of high school," Hermione answers, her mouth a wry smile. "Before that for Harry."

"Harry?"

"Best friend," she clarifies. "One of them anyway, but Ron was -" Hermione makes a hiccupping sound and looks up at Sam.

He nods and thinks he gets it, and the way Hermione's been about Dean makes a little more sense.

"Anyway, wars come to a head and people get hurt."

Sam nods, thinks of Pastor Jim and all the time they'd spent with him as kids, their dad off on a hunt and Dean still too young to be left in charge for long. He thinks of their Mom and Dad and Jess. He thinks of Dean. "Yeah," he says. "They do."

"There was a battle, we got split up and Ron must have got hit by a curse. I didn't find him until after and there were so many that needed help. We didn't even know what he'd been hit with for over a month."

She's not crying and Sam thinks it would be easier if she was because then he could reach out, comfort her the same way he's done a hundred times before on a hunt with the people left behind. Instead, she's stiff-backed and closed off and Sam has the feeling that if he interrupts or distracts her, she'll close up and brush this off. He's not sure he wouldn't prefer it if she did.

"I couldn't cure him," she says. Sam almost can't hear her, her voice has gone so quiet, thin and barely there, more a breath than actual sounds.

When he meets her eyes it's like turning the clock back three months and looking in a mirror.

"I promised them all I would; that they'd have him back. We'd lost so many and I just needed – he wasn't dead and I should have been able to -"

Her voice breaks off and Hermione buries her head in her hands, back hitching with silent sobs. The reaction seems too strong and raw, like she hasn't talked about this before; not like this.

Sam slides from his chair, pulls Hermione down into his lap on the floor, lets her bury her head in his neck, tears soaking into his shirt, seeping through to touch his skin. He wants to push her head back ask her why now, has his answer in the way her hands clutch in his shirt making him remember an evening when their rolls were reversed.

He rubs his hand up the line of her spine, tells her it's okay, hears Hermione's words to him about Dean and says, "Shh, no one blames you."

Hermione's distant after that.

More closed off, she buries herself in her work and Sam see's the likeness between them more than ever. Sees what Dean saw.

He's taking a shower two days later and thinking about that. Thinking about Jess and the way she could be ballsy and blunt when she thought she was in the right. The way she was fiercely protective of her friends, and never backed down in defending them when she had to. The way when he'd met her she was challenging two guys from his class to a game of pool, how she'd beat them both hands down and proceeded to ask Sam out; all confidence except for the way her eyes had flicked down and away as she waited for his response, just for a moment. If Sam hadn't been used to watching out for Dean's tells he thinks he would have missed it. In the end, it's what made him say yes, not the fact that she was gorgeous or obviously bright from the conversations she'd kept up whilst she kicked Paul and Connor's asses, but the honesty in the small tell.

There's a knock at the door and Hermione saying, "Sam," soft and urgent. She says it again in the same tone, but her voice is higher and when she knocks again there's no way Sam can ignore it. He grabs a towel, wraps it around his waist and opens the door.

"Oh, thank -" Hermione's sentence splutters out, eyes dropping down and then up. Sam would smile, but she's got her wand in one hand and her hair's ruffled through like she's been pulling at it.

"What's wrong?" he asks already grabbing his jeans from the floor, pushing his feet into them with his back turned from Hermione.

"Uh, there's a woman at the gate. She's calling for you." Hermione pauses; coughs before continuing. "Sam, she can't pass through my wards."

Hermione's all business when Sam turns around except for the way her eyes are fixed firmly on a spot to his left and the way her cheeks are flushed full of colour. Sam hears Dean in his head before he thinks about how wrong that should be.

"You spoke to her?" Sam asks.

Hermione shakes her head and Sam guesses she hasn't even opened the door. "Right," he says and moves to walk past her, shrugging on a clean t-shirt as he goes.

"Sam," Hermione says, but he keeps walking, long quick strides she has to jog down the hall to catch up with.

"I'm just going to look, maybe talk to her, see what she wants."

"Sam," Hermione says, and her hand reaches out and catches his wrist, pulling him up short. "The wards she triggered, they're old wards. I laid new ones after you arrived, but due to their nature they have to be focussed on a residence. These ones keeping her out though are far more simplistic in their design. They're perimeter wards and they ward simply against intent."

Sam frowns. "Intent?" he asks.

"When I was at school, Ron my, my -"

Sam watches her hesitate, panic settling in as she tries to find a word." Sam smoothes his hand up her arm and says, "It's okay, you don't have to – I get it."

Hermione breathes in and nods, takes a moment before she continues. "He had two brother's - twins and they were always – Whenever I stayed at their house they used to play pranks on me. Fred used to say it was because I needed to loosen up so I didn't end up like Percy – one of their other brothers."

Sam smiles even though he has no idea what Percy was like. He can imagine Hermione at that age, thinks he sees a glimpse of her every time she's working on a project, can remember Dean saying much the same to him.

"Point is," Hermione says, taking a breath and seemingly distancing herself a little further from her memories, "I became fairly adept at developing protective wards to make them more effective. It was good training for – later. Then, when I moved here, I didn't want anything too specific, just something that would keep anyone out who intended anything malicious towards me."

Sam nods.

"I added you," she says.

Oh, Sam thinks.

"I'm just going to look," he says and reaches down to take her hand. It's not a gesture he really thinks about, just something he does because it seems right. Hermione's fingers curl in his and her palm feels clammy where it presses up against Sam's skin.

Sam pulls the slats apart on the window by the door, feels Hermione press up against his side as he looks out, trying to see as well.

"Do you know her?" Hermione asks and Sam hears, 'What is she?' instead.

Sam doesn't recognise her. She's tall and blonde with a face that's a little hard – all edges and attitude. She doesn't even resemble anyone he's met. But Sam knows exactly who she is as soon as he lays eyes on her. Thinks he knew the moment Hermione said there was someone here.

The woman has her hand on her hip, cocking it out as she watches the house.

"Sam," she calls out and if her stance hadn't given her away, her intonation does.

Hermione's hand's still in his and it's not until her fingers wiggle awkwardly against him - trying to break free - that Sam realises he'd been squeezing them.

He lets go, watches out the corner of his eye as Hermione flexes her fingers.

"Come on, Sam. I just want to talk, see how you're doing. You dropped off the face of the earth for a while there."

"Who is she?" Hermione asks.

"Ruby," Sam says, his voice a hissed whisper and his vocal chords tight with strain. "I have to talk to her."

Hermione grabs his arm, turns him towards her and Sam lets her. He lets her pull his attention away from the woman at the gate.

"How much does the ward tell you when it's triggered?" Sam asks.

Hermione's mouth thins and her head drops forward, shielding her eyes. Sam wants to push it back off her face and let him see.

"Not much," she says and there's regret in her voice, but it's laced with resignation. "I can tell when they are triggered. It's hard to explain, but it like a tug, like someone pulling on your hair but not. Like someone walking over your grave except different."

"Okay. What else?"

"Who the intent is aimed at. When I add another person it's like splitting the ward, creating two separate ties between it, them and me."

"And Ruby's intent?"

Hermione looks away from the window and Sam, back into the room toward the fire. "You," she answers, voice half broken like she's actually nervous and Sam finds himself surprised at that. He knows the way she hesitates when a subject makes her uncomfortable, but to actually see her show fear is somewhat unexpected. Her own issues aside, in his head, she's become this fearless figure, strong and steady, pulling him back onto his feet.

When Dean died, when Sam buried his body and drove away from Bobby in the middle of the night - getting the older hunter drunk enough to stop watching Sam so closely, leaving him to sleep it off in a motel – Sam's main plan was to follow.

Sam still can't see a future, but he doesn't feel the burning need he felt two months ago to jump first, think later.

Hermione did that.

"What else?" he asks.

"I layered in some empathic ability to the ward."

Sam smiles even though the situation doesn't warrant it. Can't help it. Hermione goes into theory even when it's not necessary, offering up the explanations and technique of why and how the ward works and was modified regardless. Dean used to chastise him for the same thing.

"Get to the point, Sammy."

"It's not concrete," she says, getting back onto the point. "It's based on emotion and that's really too complicated to interpret in a reliable way without some background knowledge of the person."

"What's the emotion?" Sam asks, keeping her focussed lest she get onto the benefits of a psychological evaluation.

"Deceit," she answers and her eyes flick up to Sam's.

"She's a demon." He shrugs.

Hermione's eyes widen. "Sweet Nimue!"

"Ruby's complicated. Her allegiances are – kind of grey. I'm just going to talk to her. Find out what she wants, and then I'll send her away."

Hermione bites her lip, says, "The wards extend to the perimeter. They'll be strong enough to keep her out as long as the gate is closed. If it's open, the circuit breaks, it'll still hold but it's weaker. She won't be able to open it, you'd have to. If those go down though, the wards on the cabin are specified to keep anything demonic out as well as a few other types of things. Well, they should – in theory. I haven't been able to test them and not having met a demon before made the preliminary weaving harder."

Sam nods. "Anything else?"

"Stay alert obviously and stay at least a meter away. That's just an extra caution. No part of her body will be able to pass over or through, but she could throw something past them. The wards only protect against sentient things and magic. And remember her main emotion right now is deceit. Whatever she says, she's likely to be playing you."

"Okay," Sam says. He reaches out and grabs Hermione's hand again, squeezes it, this time gentle and reassuring. He watches her tongue dart out and lick at her lips, finds himself wanting to lean down and kiss her, find extra reassurance in the contact.

"I'll watch from the door in case anything -"

"Just talking," Sam says and smiles. "Thanks."

"There you are," Ruby says, all fake sweetness Sam's sure wasn't there a moment ago given the way her foot's tapping in frustration.

Sam stands on the front step, Hermione at his back and just looks at Ruby. He feels brittle; the fragility of what he's built up here with Hermione - of what he's re-built of himself, seems more tangible standing looking at her. He supposes the reality of her presence makes it harder to pretend.

"What do you want, Ruby?" Sam asks.

"You recognised me!" Ruby exclaims. "I'm flattered, Sam."

"Don't be."

Ruby smiles. "Charming as ever, I see." She looks him up and down, nods. "You look good," she says, but it's not approval in her tone.

Sam narrows his eyes. He can't quite interpret the motivation behind that comment and it's so tempting to turn around, ask Hermione if her wards are picking up any changes in motivation. He wishes he'd asked more questions, he doesn't even know if that's something they could do or if it's just an initial burst.

Ruby cocks her head to the side and pouts. "No need to be so suspicious."

Sam raises his eyebrow.

Ruby huffs, but when she speaks it's all soft concern. "I was just worried, Sam. I kind of expected - after everything with Dean and then the way you just dropped off the map there – to find you drowning you sorrows in a bottle or something –" She shrugs, "- worse."

Sam bristles, his skin prickling uncomfortably at the truth in Ruby's assumption and he can't help but wonder if she knows.

A hand settles in the small of his back; tiny, but reassuring.

Sam doesn't take his eyes off Ruby, but he twists his arm around, catches Hermione's hand and squeezes it in thanks.

Ruby's face goes blank. Her head tilts to get a better look at Hermione and then down to the fence. Something flickers over her features and it's almost too quick for Sam to get a read on the emotion. Almost but not quite.

Just for a moment Ruby looks angry. More than angry; she looks pissed. And then the moment's gone.

"Shacking up with a witch, Sammy," she says, tutting and Sam knows she used that nickname on purpose. "What would dear Dean think? Didn't he hate our kind?"

"I'm not like you," Hermione says.

Later Sam will think of the fact she chose to argue that point and not the shacking up.

Hermione's shoulder brushes his arm as she steps forward out onto the step. There's an urge, Sam's pretty sure he should feel guilty for because it's so archaic, to push her back behind him. With any other girl he would indulge it, wouldn't think twice because that's the way he was raised – protect the civilians. With Hermione though, he's just pretty sure it would just piss her off and probably earn him a lecture later to boot.

Ruby's eyes narrow, then widen. She doesn't take a step back, but Sam is pretty certain that she considers it.

"No, you're not," Ruby says and looks back at Sam with interest.

"Why are you here, Ruby?" Sam asks.

"I need to talk to you, Sam," she replies, the implication clear.

Hermione looks up at Sam, opens her mouth, but he cuts her off with a quick shake of his head and a squeeze of her hand.

"You've got thirty seconds to give me a reason to care or I'm going back inside," Sam says.

"Oh come on. Seriously? Do you even know what I went through to find you? Lilith was pissed. I've seen corners of Hell I didn't even know existed. I'm a fugitive, Sam. None of the other demons, not even the ones that -"

"Thirty, twenty-nine – clock's running, Ruby – twenty-eight."

Ruby looks like she's considering testing his resolve for a moment, but Sam cocks an eyebrow at her.

"I can help you," Ruby spits out too fast.

Sam almost smiles. "Twenty six. Can you help me save Dean?" he asks and studiously ignores the way Hermione's turned to look up at him, her mouth open. "Twenty four."

Ruby's eyes dart left and her lips thin. When she answers she sounds honestly regretful. "No. Nothing I know of can do that."

Sam nods. It's what he expected, but he still had to ask. "Twenty two. You promised you'd help me save him. Twenty."

Ruby shifts her weight from the one leg to the other. "I know. I'm sorry. But Sam, I had my reasons then and I have them now. You have to listen."

"Seventeen. No, I really don't."

Ruby moves forward, tries to curl her hands over the fence and get closer, but the wards stop her from doing anything more than leaning her weight against it. "Lilith's got something big planned," Ruby grinds out. "There was talk, in the pit, when she sent me back. Rumours. It's something huge, Sam. Something apocalyptic."

Sam lets go of Hermione's hand, steps down off the porch and walks up to the fence; up to Ruby. She smiles, face relaxing into relief. Sam smiles back, but it's bitter and twisted. He moves right up to the fence, leans in so he's right up against the barrier.

"Sam," Hermione cautions from behind him.

He holds a hand up to forestall her, keep her back and let her know that he knows.

"That's why you came to find me, Ruby?" he asks, voice low.

"I can help you get her, Sam. I can teach you everything you need to know. I can help you destroy her."

Sam laughs. "How long did it take you to crawl out? How long after that to find me?"

Ruby's cheek twitches and she tries to catch his eyes, read something in them.

"You're too late. Two months ago, that might have got my attention. Hell, a month ago it might have, but right now, Ruby?" Sam shakes his head. "You have nothing I want. Lilith can bring the sky down for all I care. That's not my battle anymore and it's not revenge I want. I want Dean," he says. "And you can't help me there, can you?"

Ruby pulls back, looks at Sam. "I can help you get to Lilith and maybe then -"

Sam reaches out, grabs onto Ruby's wrist and drags her in, fastens his other hand around her neck.

"Sam," Hermione calls out from behind him.

She sounds much closer than before, but Sam just tightens his hold, leans in and hisses in Ruby's ear. "Don't lie to me, Ruby. And don't insult my intelligence. You already said you don't know of any way to help Dean. Your own words. You want to backtrack this quickly?"

Ruby doesn't answer. Her hands scrabble to get a purchase on Sam's, but they're over the barrier of the fence and she can't get them past the wards to fight her hold.

"I don't want revenge or anything you can fucking offer me. And besides, your time's up."

Sam pushes her back and she stubbles, hand reaching up to her throat and stroking over the reddened skin there, glaring back at Sam.

"Fuck off, Ruby. Go back to where you came from. I'm not buying." Sam turns around, starts walking back towards the house.

Hermione reaches out a hand and catches his elbow, but he shrugs her off.

"Gonna finish showering," he says.

She huffs, nods and looks back towards the fence. "What about -?"

Sam inclines his head, glances back at Ruby. "I may not have the Colt anymore, Ruby, but I've still got your knife. Come back here again and I'll use it."

He turns around, but Ruby lets out a bark of laughter. "You have no idea what you're doing, Sam - what's coming. I could have helped you be ready for it."

Sam pauses, looks at Hermione. "Go inside."

"Pardon," Hermione says, the irritation in her voice clear even without the way her arms cross over her chest.

Sam almost winces. "Sorry. Look, just give me a few minutes."

Hermione flicks her eyes to Ruby, nods. "Fine. Don't forget what I said."

"Yeah, I know. I won't."

He watches her go back inside; she closes the door to, but stops it just before the lock can catch and Sam walks back towards the gate, doesn't go quite as close this time.

"I got back into hunting because of Dean. Not because of Jess or Dad or anything else your kind threw at us. Without Dean there, I'd have just walked away again. Mourned for Jess, but eventually I'd have moved on, carried on with my life."

Ruby cocks her head to the side.

"You don't get it because you spent too long in the pit. You've forgotten. Hell, maybe you never even knew, but without Dean, I just don't give a fuck. I listened to you long enough, Ruby, and it never got me anywhere, never helped me save Dean. So, I'm done. We're done. Find someone else."

"There is no one else, Sam. You're the only one who can stop her."

Sam thins his lips into a sardonic smile. "Well, I guess that's tough then," he says and walks back into the cabin without looking back.


	8. Chapter 7

One week after the visit from Ruby, Hermione gets a call. Sam thinks it's the first time he's heard her phone ring since he's arrived. He's actually a little surprised she has a phone.

It starts ringing while Hermione's outside, gathering vegetables for dinner. Sam had been working on some questions from one of the old Arithmancy text books Hermione had given him, taking advantage of Hermione's rarely vacant desk, when the shrill chirping catches him off guard. He has to look for it and it takes a while for Sam to track it down to the high up, corner bookshelf where it's stood, half hidden by some sort of vase. By the time he gets to it and picks up the call, the phone's already rang off once, promptly starting back up a moment later.

It's a new phone and seems out of place in the cabin. When the noise had first started Sam had expected to track down some old antiquated rotary telephone.

"Hello," Sam says and feels a moment of awkwardness answering Hermione's phone, like he's over stepping some invisible boundary. "Uh, Hermione's phone," he adds.

No one says anything straight away and Sam wonders if it's a wrong number, then a male voice says, wary and uncertain, "Who's that?"

Sam hesitates before he responds, not sure how to answer. The person on the other end sounds surprised not that Sam expected anything else. Apart from himself and Dean, Hermione rarely talks about anyone in her life, it's usually only when Sam pushes and it's always brief and quickly brushed aside.

"I'm a friend of Hermione's," Sam says, and the last of the awkwardness seems to fade away with the simple answer. There's a cough on the other end and the person starts to say something, but Sam jumps in first. "She's in the garden, I'll just get her. Hang on."

Sam watches Hermione talk into the phone. Her face is flushed and while Sam can only here one half of the conversation, the way she half whispers her answers, flustered and embarrassed, makes him smile. He remembers having conversations like that with Dean.

"Harry, he's just a friend. What? No! I'm just – he needed somewhere to stay." Hermione pauses then, "No, I know I haven't mentioned him. I didn't know him then. Okay, yes, that sounds bad, but – it's complicated. I -"

Hermione pauses and her face goes from exasperated to pissed off. She stops pulling her hair and places her free hand on her hip, glaring down the phone.

"What do you mean you think it's good?" She coughs, flushes redder and then turns to Sam, she holds the phone against her chest and doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes as she excuses herself and moves out of the room into the hallway.

Sam picks the textbook back up, tries not to listen to the mumbled conversation fading down the hall with footsteps. He can't help but overhear her hiss, "It's not like that. Merlin, no you don't. Yes, well me either so can we just not talk about it."

When she comes back in Sam doesn't look up at her, he pretends to follow the text in his book and watches her discreetly in his periphery. Hermione's cheeks are still tinged pink and he can't resist, glancing up and asking, "It's not like what?"

Hermione stutters to a stop and stares at Sam with her mouth open and working. Sam lets the moment drag on, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow, before finally letting his face break into a smile.

Hermione glares, brushes her hair back off her face and huffs.

"Sorry," Sam says, though he can't keep the hint of laughter out of his voice.

"You sound it." Hermione looks away, bites her lip.

Sam sits up, tracks the tense line of her shoulders and frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go away for a few days."

Sam doesn't interrupt, just waits for Hermione to continue, he watches her teeth split the skin on her bottom lip, a bead of read blooming and finds his thoughts straying to what this is like.

"They're moving Ron to a new ward. Trying something different."

She's still chewing on her lip and Sam inexplicably thinks of Hermione saying she tried to cure him; that she promised and he understands in a way he didn't fully that night. Understands too well.

"I know the timing's bad, with Ruby and -" She shrugs, regretful. "I have to be there."

She looks up at him and Sam sees the hope he doesn't think he's felt himself for months.

"It's okay," he tells her. "You should go."

Hermione smoothes the hair back off Ron's forehead, his eyes blink open and he smiles at her; familiar and lopsided - confused.

An old ache she's learnt to bury awakes in her chest.

"Do I know you?" he asks. His voice is thick and clumsy, like a child still learning to talk, phonemes mixed up and the pronunciation lazy.

Hermione smiles weekly in return, cups his cheek and says, "Yes. Sorry, it's been a few months."

Ron smiles blankly back. "Okay."

His hand starts twitching on the bed sheet. It starts off in his fingers, spreading up to his arm and his shoulder.

"I'm thirsty." Ron tries to push up, reach out for the beaker on the table, but his arm buckles under his weight and his hand knocks the beaker to the floor.

Hermione winces and picks it up.

"Sorry," Ron says, brow furrowed in concentration.

What hurts the most is the thought of how much of Ron is still trapped inside a body and mind that don't quite work together; the way he looks so stressed when he can't remember who someone is or how he can't understand why doing simple things is so difficult.

"I'll go get you a drink, okay?" Hermione leans down, kisses his forehead and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"'mione?" Ron says, syllables slurring together through his groggy voice. He smiles, genuine and hopeful. "We should go out after as Harry kills him."

Hermione blinks hard. "Yes, Ron. Yes, we should."

When Hermione comes back Harry's sat in her chair. She steps around the other side of the bed and slides a hand under Ron's head to tip him up. "Drink?" she asks.

Ron frowns up at her and looks across to Harry, who nods.

"Yeah," he says, and she brings the beaker up to his lips, lets him take a long sip before pulling it away and setting it on the side.

"Thanks," Ron says. "You're new."

Hermione sighs and looks down. When she looks up Harry's watching her with a look of sympathy. "Good to see you," he says.

Hermione nods. "You too, Harry."

Ron's arm's still shaking and Hermione busies herself by looking at his chart.

"When did you get in?" Harry asks.

"Took a Portkey from New York this morning. I've been here about an hour. Went and picked up some supplies from Diagon Alley first." She flips a page of the notes over, hums. "His medication's due soon," she says and when she looks up she sees one of the mediwitches heading their way.

"I'm, uh, going to get a drink," she says. "I'll be back in a bit, okay, Ron?"

"Sure. I'm sleepy."

"Okay. Get some sleep." She kisses him again and he frowns at her, for a moment she thinks he might have another moment of lucidity, but instead he just blinks heavily and yawns.

"I'll come with you," Harry says, standing up.

"No, stay. It's okay, I won't be long."

"Nah, me and Ron can catch up in a bit, can't we mate?"

Ron smiles and yawns again, longer this time.

"See."

"You look good," Harry says, setting two cups of tea down on the canteen table.

Hermione looks up at the comment, a little startled. "Sorry, I was just -"

Harry nods and looks so much older than his years; tired and worn down. "Yeah, I know."

"How's Teddy?"

Harry smiles. "He's good. Andromeda's looking after him for a few days. They've gone down to Cornwall with Fleur and the other children."

Hermione smiles and looks down at the table. "I'm sorry," she says.

"What for?"

Hermione flicks her eyes up briefly. Harry's bent over, head cocked to one side and trying to catch her eye.

"Seriously, Hermione?"

"I just – I just left. It's just, it was so -" Hermione hiccups back the word 'hard.' It's true, more so than she's comfortable admitting even now, and she hates the fact that she gave up so easily. She hates that it's been eight months since she even looked at her research into Ron's condition; that she hasn't since Dean turned up and told her about his deal.

Harry reaches across the table, squeezes Hermione's hand and says, "I know. It's okay -"

"No, it's not. I just left you all because it was easier to not be here. Because it was too difficult. Because I wasn't making any progress and I hated not being able to fix this, hated the way everyone kept looking at me with all this hope and expectation and how I was just letting you all down."

"You didn't leave entirely, Hermione. You've been back."

"I've visited, a few times a year. It's not the same. Don't make excuses for me, Harry. I left. I left you and Molly and Ginny. I left Ron. And it's not okay."

Hermione hears Harry let out a long exhalation of breath. He sounds tired and she tries to remember a time when he didn't. She comes up with a memory of five years earlier when she'd visited the Weasley's for Christmas; Harry on the floor helping Teddy open a mound of presents, the way he'd been smiling the whole time - the whole day.

"We never expected you to make him better, Hermione. No one did."

Hermione wipes her eyes, looks up.

Harry's looking at her calmly, but his forehead's creased and he pushes his glasses up his nose, something he always used to do when he was uncomfortable; fiddling with the way the arm sits on his ear. She feels a little too raw and it seems so long since they were this honest with each other. Ron's condition was one thing, but as Harry's hand drifts to rub at the back of his neck, she realises she's missed this too, has felt the loss of this ease with Harry just as keenly.

"You all kept looking at me -" she starts to answer, because they did. She saw it in Molly's face every time she brought her dinner upstairs to her desk and asked how she was doing.

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says. "It wasn't like that. The best mediwitches and wizards have looked at Ron's case; have researched it, examined him and treated him. And he's not the only one to be affected this badly by these types of curses." His voice is slow and sure - steady like Lupin when he taught them. Hermione watches his lips tilt down and recognises it from too many mornings spent staring in the mirror - regretful. "You were eighteen, almost nineteen and we all know you're bloody scary brilliant, Hermione, but no one expected you to cure him. We just hoped you'd find your own way and be able to move on."

Hermione blinks. "You seemed so frustrated with me all the time. So angry?"

"I just wanted you to stop pretending everything was okay, but I didn't know how to get through to you. Molly said we had to let you work it out your own way, but I just –" Harry sighs.

"Oh!" Hermione says and thinks of the argument they had when she'd first decided to leave.

She looks down.

"I'm glad you got there," Harry says, and rubs his neck again, tugging at the neck of his jumper. "You know with your... At the... Uh, you know?"

"What?"

"Your, uh - houseguest?"

Hermione feels her cheeks heat and looks away quickly saying, "It's not like that."

"Well, whatever. It's helped right. I mean that's why you're like this now – talking and stuff," Harry says, then adds quickly. "Ron would understand."

Hermione thinks she wants to be sick. She rubs her hand over her stomach and quickly stops before Harry gets any more wrong ideas.

"I mean even if the new treatment works, it's not going to be quick. He's never going to be how he was. He'll need to do a lot of work, and might never be – I'm just saying, it's not a cure and I know you and he kind of - you know, but no one would judge you, least of all Ron if this, uh, turned out to be, you know?"

Hermione thinks she hears Harry swear and when she glances at him he's looking anywhere but at her. Any other time it would be amusing.

"It's not like that," she says firmly again, and Merlin she feels like she's saying that a lot lately. Her stomach flops and she feels acid burn her throat. "He's just – he just needed a friend," she says adds silently that maybe they both did.

Harry looks at her until Hermione has to shift in her seat under the weight of his eyes. Sometimes – most of the time – Harry can be almost as obtuse as Ron used to be, occasionally he can be all too perceptive.

Eventually, he looks away, nods and takes a sip of his drink. "Okay," he says, but it really doesn't sound like that.

There are lights on in the cabin when Hermione Apparates the last step of the journey home. She stands at the gate a moment longer than necessary and takes in the knowledge that she's coming home to someone. It's a realisation Hermione thinks she probably should have had before, after she'd met Blaise in town, but it feels more poignant now after being away for a few days and with the forest so dark.

Hermione smiles, understands what Harry had meant a little better and walks up the path.

The fires on when she unlocks the front door and steps inside and there's the smell of tomato soup coming from the kitchen. "Hello!"

"Hey," Sam calls back. "Hungry?"

Hermione reserves judgment until reaches the kitchen. Sam's at the stove, stirring. "Home made?" she asks, glancing around the room and expecting to see an empty tin.

Sam looks over his shoulder and smirks. "I can cook!" he says, mock offended.

"Sorry," Hermione replies. "I just thought, what with moving around a lot -"

Sam's smile dims a little. "Jess taught me a little. Dean's the cook of the family."

Hermione looks up, surprised, and tries to imagine Dean in the kitchen doing anything other than trying to get her pants off. "Really?"

Sam's looking away again, back to the pot. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is soft, fond. "He never cooked for you?"

"No," Hermione says. Almost adds that they never really got much cooking done when Dean strayed into the kitchen during a visit, but it feels oddly awkward to talk about that with Sam now. Hermione's not sure she's entirely comfortable with why.

"He makes - He always made a mean chilli," Sam says.

Hermione swallows at the slip and thinks about how her and Harry had started to talk about Ron in the past tense. She hadn't realised they'd been doing it until now, but they had and it feels a bigger betrayal than anything else. She wonders if Sam feels the same and tries to recall what she says when she talks of him.

"Here you go," Sam says, placing two bowls on the table and pushing a spoon across the space towards Hermione.

"Thanks."

"'s okay."

Hermione's washing up their dishes in the sink with her back to Sam, letting him just watch without observation.

"You ever think about coming home to Dean, like this?" Sam asks.

The question's out of the blue and he wants to take it back as soon as he's said it. It's one of those random thoughts he has about this situation that should never be said aloud. It's one of the moments that Sam remembers what brought him here and who Hermione was to Dean. It's important and he wants it to be. He wants Hermione to reaffirm the verbal confirmation she's already given him. At the same time it makes something twist in his stomach; ugly and confused.

Her shoulders tense and her head seems to drop down, long wayward curls breaking free to dangle in the soapy water in the sink.

"Don't answer that," Sam adds quickly.

Hermione's head bobs in acknowledgement, but she stays quiet, withdrawn.

He thinks about the times he'd come home from school and Dean would be with some girl. He remembers walking into the kitchen one afternoon after math club, Dean had Chloe Macintyre hoisted up on the worktop, legs spread around Dean's hips and his brother's hand on her thigh, disappearing under her skirt.

He stood in the doorway watching Dean's hand move and twist, sliding higher, the distant sounds of Chloe's laugh and the way her cheeks had flushed and she'd pushed his brother off when she caught Sam staring.

Sam's never really gotten along with any of the girls Dean brought back or dated. Even things with Cassie had felt strained.

It wasn't just that they weren't good enough for his brother, though they weren't, Sam just hadn't had much interest in any of them nor them in him. Sam guesses he got in the way; Dean had cancelled on a date more than once because Sam was having problems with a class and needed help or had just had a tough day.

Sam looks at Hermione's back and thinks of Dean visiting her; Dean knowing where the spare key to the front door's kept and just walking in and surprising her.

For a moment Sam stares at the hint of skin where Hermione's jumper's rode up above the waist band of her jeans and sees Dean's hand there and imagines coming home to them.

Everything seems suddenly so much more unfair than it has since Lilith took Dean. Sam feels a desperate and familiar need for revenge spike through him and it's a struggle for a moment to push it down.

Sam pulls the lid from the cookie jar, pulling out a biscuit. "I think I made a break through with one of the puzzles in the text you gave me," he says, forcing his concentration elsewhere. It feels necessary now to fill the silence that's built up in a way it doesn't usually. It's enhanced by the fact that Sam's had no one to talk to for three days. He's missed it in a way he didn't after Dean died; when he'd only wanted to talk to his brother and couldn't be bothered with the pleasantries necessary to deal with anyone else. He leans back against the table and starts to talk about the problem, how once he'd started to understand some of the principles better the puzzle had been so much easier to translate from the Latin and had just unravelled.

Hermione's shoulders loosen as he talks so Sam carries on.

"It's nice," she says, cutting through one of Sam's pauses for breath.

"It is," he agrees. "It's kind of nice to be able to sit back and see the progress you've made as well."

"No, not that. I mean coming home to someone. I'd forgotten."

"Oh." Sam says. "Yeah."

Hermione's visibly off balance for the rest of the night.

After they'd finished dinner, Sam had tried to ask about her trip, how it went. She'd shut down, hadn't responded, pretended to carry on with her work as though she hadn't heard.

It wouldn't be unusual if she hadn't, but Sam could tell that this time she had from the forced set of her head, the way she was careful to keep him out of her line of vision.

Sam lets it drop in the same way Hermione hadn't made him talk about Dean when he'd first arrived; had let Sam push the discussion.

He goes back to his book, makes a note in the margin of the pad he's using to scribe the translation.

"Do you feel guilty?" Hermione says, breaking the silence of the room.

Sam doesn't get chance to answer because she carries on. He does, more so because Dean died for him. More so because the one thing Sam promised his brother he'd do for him he failed at. More so because he looks at Hermione and doesn't miss Dean any less, but he finds it easier to pretend he does.

"It was always the three of us. We always looked out for each other. Even when we were arguing I knew they had my back. But I wasn't there when it counted. Harry's got an excuse, his reason is permissible, but mine –"

"Hermione -" Sam tries to say.

"It's not even that though, or that I can't find a cure. It's that – we were just starting, you know? We'd taken so long to get to that point and we were finally there, on the same page and together and we never really got to start.

"It seems so unfair that I got the chance to try that with someone else and Ron never did. I think that's why it didn't matter, that Dean was never in the position to offer more because I didn't feel like I -" She hiccups a half sob, swallows it down and meets Sam's eyes and Sam understands, feels his own throat close up in shared empathy.

In his head, Sam hears Hermione when he first arrived. He hears her telling him to stop being selfish, to not waste Dean's sacrifice and hears it again in the rise and fall of the tone of Hermione's voice now; in the fractured pitch and broken timber.

He's thinks right now he's supposed be the supportive one, mirroring her words back at her, telling her not to beat herself up. He can't though. The words won't come and he isn't sure that's exactly what Hermione's looking for anyway. So instead, he chooses a different tactic, one he knows Hermione employed with him too.

"I have a problem with this chapter. I've looked at the chapters that supposedly explain this particular strategy for this strain of Arithmancy, but it doesn't make sense. It doesn't correspond to the translation I've done. I think maybe there's a different interpretation, one that contradicts the theory, but would support the result."

Hermione just stares at him and it seems to drag on a beat too long, enough that Sam questions whether he misinterpreted his reaction. He's almost sure he couldn't have told her it was okay, though. Sam learnt to lie on the job, but he always sucked with anyone close. Dean and Jess could both always see through him and it was just easier to tell the truth. He thinks he should be more shaken by the realisation that Hermione has fitted herself so quickly into this category, but he really isn't.

Hermione draws an intake of breath and says, "Show me what you have."

It starts innocently enough, not that Sam hasn't thought about this, but it's not something that ever had any real intent behind it. It couldn't.

Except for that once and that had been different.

What Sam had wanted had been different; all tied up in confused tangled knots of his brother, his grief, and something that felt like it had been stolen from him unfairly and that he wanted – needed – back.

Sam shows Hermione the text and his notes, starts to try and explain the conflict between the theory in the books Hermione had given him and this particular chapter which seems to tear the theory apart.

It works exactly as Sam had hoped. She scans through the chapter and Sam's interpretation, correcting the grammar of the translation with pencil marks in the margin as she goes.

Sam smiles at the attention to detail, the way she can't help herself. Her brow's furrowed and she's frowning down at the page in concentration and Sam's always found that attractive. Dean did too. He liked focus, however it was directed. Sam guesses it's a hangover from their upbringing.

She starts muttering on the fourth page, eyes flicking back and forth between the neat type and Sam's messy shorthand.

Sam's stayed back until now; leant against the couch cushions, content to watch Hermione get preoccupied, but he leans forward and tries to hear.

"I don't understand," she says, voice a quiet hum. "No, that can't be right. I haven't seen – Arithmancy isn't a discipline you can manipulate."

"Is that why you like it?" Sam asks.

"Huh," she looks up, teeth biting that fucking lip again and Sam almost forgets what he asked.

"Uh," he hesitates, watches her pink tongue dart out and over an imprint of teeth. "I asked if that was why you liked it," he says again. "With Math, back at school, that was what I liked. Our lives were so – I'd say unpredictable, but they really weren't. Not for us. But they weren't steady, and Math was just – there was no inconsistency to it. There's always a right and wrong answer, always the same answer. It just made sense."

Hermione just looks at him, and Sam starts to feel self conscious in a way he really hasn't for a long time. He rubs the back of his neck, something he's sure he picked up from Dean, cuts his eyes away. "Sorry, you were -, I interrupted your flow."

"No, it's okay. I mean you did, but yes." She flushes. "That is why I like it. Translating has some of the same appeal in that there's a formula; a key to all languages, but it's not exact like Arithmancy. It's dependant to some extent on perspective and interpretation, but I enjoy the unravelling aspect of it. Arithmancy was one of the only subjects at school I found that doesn't really change - nothing else seemed as reassuring. I expect that's another reason why I disliked Divination so much."

Sam nods. "Maybe I made a mistake."

"Umm," Hermione agrees, looking back at the page, she takes a minute to finish reading then looks up and says, "Yes, I think this is the problem".

Her face is bright and full of success, but it's not condescending, just open and honest with shared interest and discovery.

Sam doesn't really think.

He leans in and Hermione looks back down at the book, pointing to something, thinking that's his intention - to see.

It's really not, at least not the book at any rate.

Sam's hand catches Hermione's chin and tilts it up. Her lips part on a question, and Sam can see the flash of straight white teeth and pink.

He leans in the last few inches, gives her chance to pull away and when she doesn't he presses his mouth against Hermione's and kisses her.

Sam feels her hesitate, her mouth closing against his, trying to gentle the kiss into something else. Sam almost lets her. He starts to pull back and ease off, but her hand reaches out, grasping on to his upper arm in contradiction and Sam begs her mouth back open with small swipes of his tongue.

Hermione makes a sound; a short puff of surprised air pushing out into Sam's mouth. He swallows it down, feels her bottom lip move against his, slotting and fitting just right, leaving him open to suck it inside his mouth, and it's good. Sam has the thought that they've always been heading here; that Dean knew.

He shifts closer, tipping Hermione back with a hand on the small of her back, except then she's pulling back, pushing against his chest and shaking her head.

"Sam, stop. We've been over this. I'm not – This isn't what you -"

Sam's hand is pulled from her chin, but he catches Hermione's shoulder before she can put too much distance between them. "Don't tell me what I want," he says. "Fuck! I know what you're not, Hermione. That's not what I want. Not from this anyway."

Hermione's looking away from him, lips downturned. Sam's not sure she's listening to him, because she's worrying her lip and her fingers are digging into the leather of the book's bindings. Sam, runs his finger along the back of her hand, tries to draw her attention to the pressure she's inflicting. It doesn't work, a nail digs in and Sam can see the impression it makes; the way a jagged edge of it has scratched into the surface as Hermione's nail's slipped down.

"Hermione," he says, lifting her hand from the book, dropping his other hand to slide the book away to safety, not willing to worry her further right now and draw attention to the damage. "Come on. Tell me you don't want this. I've seen you."

"Sam," she says, and still won't look up. "I don't – It doesn't matter, it's not right. You -"

It's a lot like getting woken up with a bucket of ice water and Sam feels like a dick.

He swears and he's not sure if it's at Hermione or himself, he thinks it's more likely to be the latter though. "Sorry," he says and pulls both his hands back using them to push himself up from the chair. The couch's cushions seem to protest his escape and try to pull him back, but he pushes forward and stands. "I thought maybe you – I thought we might - Sorry."

Sam turns and his throat feels clogged with something that seems to threaten to choke him. He pushes his hair back off his face, wipes his hand roughly against his forehead, but can't get past Hermione's 'not right,' the way she hadn't been able to look at him.

"God, fuck! Sorry," he says suddenly, stopping in front of the door to the bedrooms. He doesn't think he's apologising to Hermione anymore. He curls his hand around Dean's amulet and leans forward, rests his head against the wood of the door and tries to stop seeing himself leaning forward into that kiss and Hermione's face when she'd pulled back, the disappointment in it. He tries not to think about what he'd thought about Dean. He feels the metal press into his palm and tries to focus on that instead. It doesn't seem to help.

Sam starts at the feel of a small hand catching his elbow, holding on and tugging. It's a moment before he hears his name being said softly - urgently - with each pull.

When he turns, letting Hermione urge him around, it's with the intention of more apologies, of backing away and trying to brush this off, hoping Hermione will let him as easily as she did before even if it's a different mistake he's made.

"Sam," she says and she's lifting up onto her toes, pressing forward, and Sam doesn't even register the kiss until her tongue's pressing between his lips; tentative and unsure.

Sam groans, his hands fit over Hermione's hips, fingers hooking into belt loops and trying to pull her closer. It's good, Sam feels something settle even as he thinks about Dean again; 'not right' and almost. He tries to pull back, but Hermione hums a protest, bites into his lip, and he smiles against the kiss.

"Fuck, should have known you'd be just as bossy with this," he says.

"Shut up," she replies, puffing hair back off her face. Her hand slides up Sam's chest and around the back of his neck, pulling him back down into another kiss.

It's harder, Hermione's more insistent. She presses in quickly and their teeth clack before Sam puts a hand on Hermione's cheek and moves them until the angle's right. He slides his tongue inside Hermione's mouth this time and pushes in deep, letting it skim against her own as he tries to take back some of the control.

Hermione doesn't let him.

He can feel the dimples in her cheek as she smiles, sucking on his tongue before forcefully slowing the kiss down like it's a dare.

Sam growls out a, "Fuck this," against her mouth and his hands move down, dig into her ass and hoist her up. He uses his elbow and shoulder to push off from the door and Hermione's legs wrap around his waist with a, 'humph.'

Sam turns around, pushes the plant and book on the small drop leaf table next to the door, to one side.

"Careful," Hermione cautions, the word breathed against Sam's mouth.

"Not gonna drop you," Sam says back, biting that damn bottom lip and setting Hermione down on the table.

"I meant with my book."

Sam laughs at that, then lets his tongue take a last swipe against her lips before moving down; licking and sucking at the skin below her ear, under her chin, moving down her neck towards her collar bone.

"Fuck! Don't think I realised," he says.

Her skin tastes sweet, it's like honey laced with salt and Sam remembers buying popcorn with Dean, mixing sweet and salted together and eating it while watching shitty horror movies, taking the piss out of the badly written lore.

He mind drifts and he doesn't think. That's why it happens.

Hermione's making these little noises and Sam can feel his dick responding; heavy weight settling and building between his legs as it hardens, pushes up against his fly. He remembers the first drink he had after burying Dean; the pleasant numbness that settled in his head after his sixth. This isn't like that. It doesn't drown out everything else like the alcohol did. Dean's still there. He's still a heavy weight in Sam's chest that he doesn't want to ever move, but for the first time Sam doesn't feel quite so exhausted from its presence.

Hermione fists a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and Sam's nose is full of the scent of her shampoo; familiar now from all the times he's used it himself.

"Were you like this with Dean?" he asks, biting the lobe of her ear. "Pushy like this?" It's not a conscious decision, just a thought, fast and fleeting like all of the other times he's looked at Hermione and tried to fit her into Dean's life. Sam doesn't even realise he's said it at first, not until she freezes up and her mouth stops responding to his.

He pulls back, not enough to break contact or give either of them chance to pull away and break this up, but enough to catch Hermione's eyes.

She's not looking at him, but her hands are still bunched in the fabric of his t-shirt and her legs are still around his waist, if a little looser.

"Hermione," Sam says and she looks up at him.

She licks her lip and almost bites it. She doesn't at the last minute, but her tongue flicks out again like she's tasting something there.

"I didn't mean..." Sam tries to explain, but she cuts him off.

"Sam, don't. This – Merlin! I don't know what I'm doing." She laughs and it's hollow and full of scorn that Sam doesn't think is directed at himself.

"No!" Sam shakes his head. "I know what you're thinking, but this isn't about that. That wasn't about that."

Hermione cocks her head to the side, question clear. She doesn't say anything, but she's looking at Sam like she's trying to work something out and just isn't sure. "I know you think that, but -"

Sam pulls back. "Shut up a minute," Sam says.

Hermione bites her cheek and goes from confused to pissed off; glaring at Sam.

He smiles. "Just – listen. Okay?" He lets Hermione's legs slide down and gives her just enough space to move away if she wants, without letting her weight slide totally to the table, just enough so she's still steady, just enough so he's still got his hands on her hips. "I want this. I want to try this?" Sam says and tries to sound as certain as he is, but his voice betrays him, turning it into a question against his will. "I know it's a weird situation and it shouldn't, but – it feels right?"

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it and swallows. Sam watches the movement of her throat, the crinkles of her forehead and tries to get a read on her reaction. It's not as easy as it was with Dean, he doesn't have the twenty-odd years of knowledge; of watching from close quarters and learning all her tells, but he can read enough to see some hesitation, some conflict of emotion.

"We need to slow down," Hermione says. "Step back a bit and think this over. You might not – It's probably not the best of times for either of us to be jumping head first into something."

Sam nods, even though his instinct wants to say he's not. Something in Hermione makes him want to argue things out. It's the same bursts of rashness he used to get when he was around his dad. He's not entirely sure that's a good thing.

"Okay," Hermione says and starts to push Sam away, to slide off the table until she's standing. She catches his hand at the last minute, prolongs the contact and Sam's relieved at the gesture in a way he's not sure he's ready to address. "I'm not saying no, okay? I just need – I just need to finish dealing with a few things. And, I haven't really thought about - this. Much."

Sam lips quirk into a grin. "Much?"

"Shut up."

"Okay," Sam says and considers leaving it at that, but Hermione's gaze flick from his eyes to his lips and he smiles, leans in slow and brushes a barely there kiss against Hermione's mouth.

"Uh!" Hermione says in response.

"Okay," Sam says again. "Slow." He wants to say something more, but there's a knock at the door and Hermione's head twists sharply, brow furrowing.

"You're not expecting anyone?" Sam asks. "I mean, your trip -?"

Hermione shakes her head, pulling her hand away. "Stay back," she says.

Sam glares at her, his eyebrow arched because seriously?

"Shut up," Hermione says, blushing. "I just – I'd rather no one see you until I know who it is."

"If they're here for me and have got past your wards without triggering them, then they probably don't need to see me," he argues, stepping forward.

Hermione picks her wand up from her desk and looks back over her shoulder at Sam. "Please," she says. "It's probably nothing. Or just Harry checking up on me." Hermione's eyes widen. "Oh Merlin!" she says and tries to smooth her hair, rubbing a hand across her mouth.

Sam almost laughs at the moment of panic, but Hermione's hand on the door knob makes him hold it back.

When she opens it, Sam can't see who's on the other side from where he is, the door blocks his view and all he can see is the side of Hermione's face angled away from him, the way her mouth opens and she lifts her wand, points it towards whoever's there.

Sam's moving forward before she even says anything.

He still can't see, when she says, slow and breathy, "Who- You can't – Dean?"

Sam feels his stomach drop out and the sky fall in all over again.


End file.
